Category Archives: Album

Modern Concepts: Anais Mitchell’s Hadestown

When my friend Nick told me about the existence of this album, I couldn’t believe that I hadn’t found it before then. First off, I’m a concept album nut – especially when there’s a cohesive narrative as well as a unifying theme (which I suppose is the distinction between concept album and actual ‘rock opera’, but the line is often blurry). The fact that it has a cast of characters and a different person portraying each one is icing on the cake. Secondly, the story is taken from the story of Orpheus and Eurydice in Greek myth – I can never get enough mythology – transplanted into what feels like Depression-era America (everyone lookin’ for work, etc), which imagines the story fantastically. Thirdly, it’s some of the best folk I’ve ever heard. The harmonies, the melodies, the instrumentation are all absolutely top-notch.

One simple fact about the cast here that nevertheless improves the listening experience immensely is that no character sounds remotely like any other character. Anais Mitchell herself has a sprightly, innocent voice with incredible vibrato, which initially seems jarring, but handles Eurydice’s transformation from wide-eyed wonder to sorrow surprisingly easily, as she laments the empty promises she’s received in “Flowers (Eurydice’s Song)”. What’s also very effective about it is that her voice is easily discernible when it pops up in ensemble choruses that are representing the denizens of Hadestown – your being able to hear her marks her as one of the masses from that point on.

The other female main character is Hades’ wife, Persephone, as played by Ani DiFranco who has a lower and freer quality to her voice than Mitchell – she takes her time and gives an enticing performance on her character’s main song, “Our Lady of the Underground”, claiming to be the cure for all those that are ailing from being underground in Hadestown too long. She offers sunshine and wind and all the luxuries not easily available to those on the inside, which gives you a good picture of the racquet that she and Hades are running there. She remains more than a one-dimensional character, however, as she also has moments of poignancy, pleading the case to Hades for Orpheus and Eurydice to unite after hearing him sing in “How Long?” (which actually appeared  on Mitchell’s previous album The Brightness as “Hades and Persephone”), as bedroom chat between the couple.

Following that, Justin Vernon picks up the story as Orpheus himself, retelling the story of how Hades and Persephone themselves were once young and how they came to be entwined and how Hades’ own heart is not so hard as it seems (“suddenly Hades was only a man”) – another plea to both Hades himself and the people in Hadestown to free Eurydice, in “Epic (Part II)”. It picks up the tune from part 1 earlier in the album which describes how mean and old mean old Hades really is. Vernon, he of Bon Iver, handles the constant pain and occasional joy that a god of music such as Orpheus might experience. He often hits the high notes in this that he’s famous for, but actually manages to give great performances from all over his range. The one quibble with this I have that I have a real hard time even arguing is the fact that all of his vocals are harmonized. I mean, it sort of fits that everything Orpheus sings would be in harmony, but the fact that he is the only one on the whole album whose vocals are treated that way takes me out of it a little bit – pulls me out of the fact that I’m listening to a play/story unfold and makes it sound a little more like just standard song vocals than a character delivering dialogue/lyrics. The harmonies themselves are even fantastic! It just is not consistent and makes it sounds weird when he interacts with other characters. But a very minor issue.

Greg Brown, with his lugubrious voice, plays Hades, every note that he sings screaming ‘shady’, ‘untrustworthy’ and ‘unbelievably confident’. He has an incredibly rich voice that sounds totally at home commanding his citizens to slave away working on “Why We Build the Wall”, as they repeat his propaganda back to him in an ever-lengthening chain of word or attempting to woo Eurydice to come work for him on “Hey, Little Songbird”, brushing away any of Orpheus’ credibility and replacing it with the promise of a paycheck. A more perfect villain’s voice I cannot imagine.

Ben Knox Miller only appears a couple times on Hadestown, as do the Haden triplets, but both are difficult to forget once you’ve heard them. Miller sounds like an old rambling bluesman in his turn as Hermes, presumably a friend of Orpheus and Eurydice as he chimes in on the popular opinion of Hadestown on the big showpiece that incorporates most of the characters in the play on the upbeat “Way Down Hadestown”. The other track he’s one, “Wait For Me”, he spends in reverent whispers as he gives Orpheus instructions on how to get into Hadestown with a few ominous turns of phrase  – “If all you got it your own two legs/just be glad you got ’em”. The voice he uses for his two appearances actually vary quite a bit, but both fit the mood of the song so absolutely and lend credence to the narrative.

The Haden triplets play the Fates, and what you get here is three ladies with remarkably similar voice doing all kinds of harmonic acrobatics, as they assure Eurydice that trying to get yourself some money and a steady job ain’t the worst thing in the world in “When the Chips Are Down”. The way their vocals interweave and layers on repeated lines is spellbinding and are unfortunately here to mainly dispense hard truths to our heroes.

It’s never less than a satisfying experience listening to the first folk opera I’ve ever heard, and holds my attention utterly. The songs all vary pretty significantly and the different vocals are a treat to listen to. This actually got me onto Anais Mitchell’s entire discography and she has become one of my absolute favourite folk artists because of it (her recent album with Jefferson Hamer recounting old English folk songs, Child Ballads, is fantastic)!

“Flowers (Eurydice’s Song)”:

“Our Lady of the Underground”:

“Epic (Part II)”:

“Why We Build the Wall”:

“Way Down Hadestown”:

“When the Chips Are Down”:

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Searching in Vain by Candlelight: Procol Harum’s Shine On Brightly

Today, I want to talk to you guys about Procol Harum. But first, here’s “A Whiter Shade of Pale”:

This song actually isn’t on the album that I want to talk about, but it sort of sets up everything that runs through their second album, Shine On Brightly, and is the song that the band managed to smash into the long-term memory of popular culture. The dominance of the organ, Gary Brooker’s conversational vocals and the psuedo-intellectualism inherent (the chord progression and melody is lifted from Bach, and the lyrics reference Chaucer among other things) in the song perfectly set the stage for their more confident second album (though the actually recorded “A Whiter Shade of Pale” before even their first album came out, so it took them two, in my opinion, to catch up to their debut single).

Shine On Brightly was my first real experience of the band and it strikes me as curious now as to why I didn’t pick their debut first, as most versions have “Pale” tacked onto it, which is the logical one to go for – also because I like to start listening to an artist I plan to spend multiple albums with with their first one, but not here it would seem. Oh yeah, I remember why now. More on that later.

With a good balance of classical aspirations and psychedelia, the album has the band in an incredibly potent state, with the organ leading every step of the way – providing the simple intro and core for “Quite Rightly So”, and burbling up through the noise in the title track with that shows Matthew Fisher’s tastefully light touch while deftly handling a solo in the middle without going nuts proving virtuosity. “Shine On Brightly” to me is the key track here, as it shows off every great facet of the band in a 3-minute and 30-second window. While the aforementioned organ keeping things moving, B.J. Wilson is adding some electric ‘hot space’ with his stop start introduction to the verses, while Gary Brooker talks about his ‘befuddled brain’ and creates some grand chords on the piano. This all lays foundation of the best one-note riff I’ve ever heard as Robin Trower peels his guitar off with a most exquisite tone that serves as the platonic of the 60s British psychedelic sound.

The music really seems to bounce along in the piano-led “Skip Softly (My Moonbeams)” whole Trower is barely keeping his guitar under control underneath the verses before we come to a frilly piano interlude that underpins their classic leanings while the rest of the band exercises their right to launch into freak-out before someone shouts “HEY!” and the whole group fades out on a super-quick version of the Russian Sword Dance. While the songs don’t really go madly off in all directions (one song excepted), there’s a lot of creativity to be found within what seem to be straightforward tracks, as Sgt. Pepper’s had come out the year before and band’s were just going bonkers. The fact alone that the prior song bumps up against a good ol’ blues stomp in “Wish Me Well”, with a shouted twin lead vocal, gives you the impression that there are a lot of facets at play here, and the journey is not going to as simple as it seems.

And indeed the most-faceted are yet to come. The discovery of this album, to me, came in that summer where I dove headlong into progressive rock and tried to get right down into it, as much as possible. I was ultimately unimpressed with the message boards I’d been inhabiting that got me there, but a lot of the good stuff stayed with me. This album, of course, is regarded as the first to feature a 20-minute long multi-part suite of a song, with distinct sections and a hell of a delusion of grandeur. In the prog world, length seems to be king, as it aligns the music with that classical, that most legitimate of musics, as demonstration that serious art is happening and this ain’t just a three-minute pop song (which, honestly, by this time was already becoming an art in itself). The fact that I ended up liking the whole thing was a bonus.

“In Held ‘Twas In I” (the first lyric taken from each of the five sections forms the title) starts off with sitar and a spoken story about a monk going to visit the Dalai Lama to discover the meaning of life, and just goes up from there, expounding on the curiosities and intricacies of life with further spoken word sections of downtrodden spirits wondering about their place in the world. “‘Twas Teatime at the Circus” with shouting from the whole band and appropriately goofy music talks about the act of saving face despite confusion and “In the Autumn of My Madness” muses on the encroaching problem of age as the fear sets in that they will not remain as they are for much longer (very much in the vein of Pink Floyd’s “Time”), with a wistful guitar in the background peaking just as Matthew Fisher’s high vocals do (“Bring all my friends unto me/And I’ll strangle them with words”). This, of course, required a klaxon going off in the middle of it for reasons that are perfectly apparent. For all the pop-philosophy and metaphors upon metaphors, however, it really is the band’s finest hour, as the gravity of the piece is upon them and the required songwriting sophistication is on full display here (as well as Brooker’s crowning vocal moment, in “Look to Your Soul”), managing the transitions well and stepping outside of any of the blues-rock trappings they’d displayed earlier.

For an aspirational album with a touch of psychedelia, it’s hard to top Shine On Brightly. Every member of the band is working to create something new in the wide old world of 1968, when the onus of creativity much outweighed that of the playing, and the resulting content is much more accessible to anyone who’s curious to listen. The entire album contains the strength of what made “A Whiter Shade of Pale” such a big deal, only writ larger and with an incredible confidence at the centre of it.

“Shine On Brightly”:

“Skip Softly (My Moonbeams)”:

“In the Autumn of My Madness/Look to Your Soul/Grand Finale”:

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Spinning Presently: Jack White’s Lazaretto

It’s been awhile since I’ve been on board the Jack White train. It’s not that I’ve ever disliked him, my interest in his stuff just seems to be on a sine wave that moves incidentally with his releases. As soon as I heard Get Behind Me, Satan, I collected all the White Stripes albums I could (save their self-titled debut) and followed them until the high point they went out on, Icky Thump. Both Raconteurs’ albums I couldn’t get enough of, and I dug a couple of cuts from the Dead Weather’s two LPs, but that was about it. I was sort of ready to close the Jack White chapter for awhile. When White’s first actual solo album, Blunderbuss, came out, I did pick it up because I knew it would be something that I’d want eventually, but at the time I never really was able to give it the time of day, and that still colours my perception of it (apart from the infectious “Love Interruption”). I have no doubt that will change in the very near future, however, as I have listened to Lazaretto, and it is fantastic.

The very first impression I get upon listening to this album is that White is super happy to be free of the restraints that he had created for himself in the White Stripes. It was Meg on Drums and Jack playing one, maybe two other instruments over top. When Lazaretto starts with “Three Women”, he throws everything down on the table and molds it into a frenetic whole, over the skeleton of a straight-up blues song, his stock-in-trade since debuting. The heavily distorted organ that delivers the riff with an extended time signature sets the tone, as the distortion on this album is such that it in no mean feat to identify the instrument being played. Organ, guitar, piano, electric piano, pedal steel, harmonica, fiddle – throw some synths in there, and you just gotta sit back and enjoy the ride. White has assembled quite a band to back him on all but the final song here (a solo acoustic number, as is tradition), giving him so many more moving pieces to work with; you gotta wonder if he was dreaming up the near orchestral sweep of “Would You Fight For My Love?” while pounding away at the three chords in “Jumble, Jumble”.

Though he is by far most associated with the guitar, the piano feels like it very much makes up the backbone of the album, peeking through at the end of every line and bashing away time behind every chorus, very much expressing the cute and coy riffs he never quite got to on the blocky chord bashing he did with his piano in the Stripes. It lends to the ‘open’ feel the record has. If you can throw layer after layer on top without worrying about limits, you could do worse that having a core piano track, which makes it feel as if White has moved into the “songwriter/arranger” role, moreso than the solo bluesman feel when he wields the guitar (though it is deployed handily for solos), as keeping track of everything that’s going on here is quite a feat in itself. On “Lazaretto” itself, White spits lyric upon lyric over top of a bassline of no lean distortion and a slick rhythm with no relief for its cymbals. The song eventually breaks apart from its rather mean feel to make way for a fiddle soloing on top of the bassline, which seems to come completely from left field, but not necessarily out of place.

In my experience, Jack White likes to hide a gem further down the track list, and Lazaretto is no exception. Right from the introduction of the electronically treated fake laughter to the headbangin’ riff, “That Black Bat Licorice” is a hell of a lot of fun. “She writes letters like a Jack Chick comic/Just a buncha propaganda to make my fingers histrionic” howls Jack before adding “Like this”, as he introduces a quick little high-string guitar riff; “and this” and unleashing the riff again with all the instruments crashing down and down on the same target. He screams about how “I never liked that black bat licorice” over it all, another in the list of little phrases that White uses that gives everything that specific, detailed flavour that you’re not personally familiar with but you know means something to him (as in “Lazaretto”, where he talks about “making models of humans out of coffee and cotton”).

Even though there are a couple of tracks in the middle of the record that drag a little for me (“Entitlement” in particular doesn’t feel as vulnerable as it ought to. There’s a lot going on, which is the record’s M.O., but it doesn’t suit the humble vocal), Lazaretto is a fantastic record and I would definitely argue one of White’s best, regardless of the band associated with it. The feeling that anything can come down the line and that the instruments effortlessly tag in and out while hanging onto a cohesive whole is incredibly exciting and White is a fantastic master of ceremonies while still being able to write a hell of a tune and a hell of a riff.

“Three Women”:

“Lazaretto”:

“That Black Bat Licorice”:

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Loud Crowds & Forgotten Lyrics: A Live Album Round-Up

I have been acquiring a lot of live albums lately!  I guess that once you’ve gotten well-acclimated to an artist or at least the portion of the artist’s discography you’re comfortable with, live albums offer an extra bit of material to hear from them – most of the tracks you will be familiar with, but a performance of a little-known B-side or a radically different take on an old classic might be all you need to invigorate your enthusiasm for that artist once again. Or, if you’re enjoying an artist’s current run, a live album allows you to sort of bask in the glow of current fantastic material. Live is a whole different ballgame, apart from studio tricks (for the most part) – it can often give a better idea of the state of the band.

Enjoying the heck of out Push the Sky Away, I had to keep the good times rolling with Nick Cave’s latest output, Live at KCRW. As it is promoting the recent album, 4 of the 10 tracks here are from Push the Sky Away, and the rest sort of even-handedly comb through the Cave discography, which produces interesting results. The Bad Seeds are a drastically different line-up than they have been for a majority of their album-making career, with Warren Ellis being Cave’s right-hand man after the (somewhat) recent departure of Blixa Bargeld. As such, a lot of the performances of older songs have taken a slower and more sombre tone  (with the exception of the rowdy rendition of “Jack the Ripper” at the close of the album), most notably the formerly raucous live favourite “The Mercy Seat”. Where the songs remain relatively unchanged are the instances where the original songs were already slow and mournful – the setlist has been carefully chosen (“Eventually you’ll say one of the songs on this very short list” quips Cave after a few seconds of people shouting requests at home). Everything feels a part, though, as the performances blend each of the songs into the style of the recent album – if you were a newcomer to the band, you wouldn’t bat an eye. It feels like a statement from Cave about how he wishes to proceed or at the very least his headspace during this time – rock has been more or less left in the dust and he’s now looking for that arrangement, that melody, that loop. Push the Sky Away made very much the same statement, but putting that stamp on prior tracks feels like a manifesto.

With slight trepidation, I picked up Before the Flood by Bob Dylan & The Band. My trepidation was thus: I remember hearing the 60s concerts Dylan did in England (of “Judas!” fame) where The Band hadn’t made a name for themselves and were just his backing band. I remember being absolutely gobsmacked by the performances and wanting to experience a little of that magic. How does that equal trepidation? I didn’t trust my mind, first of all. This was quite some time ago and I felt I might have been romanticizing the whole thing and would end up disappointed. Secondly, the performances I remember were circa 1966, whereas this album was from 1974, far beyond my reach of Dylan knowledge (for whatever reason, I’ve expanded little beyond Bringing It All Back Home and Highway 61 Revisited. No, not even Blood on the Tracks, which I realize would have set me up much more nicely to experience this one). I did, however, have faith and I wanted to find a way to get into The Band, so I figured this was a good stopgap.

The setlist is culled from both acts, though leaning a little more on Dylan’s side. The first thing I noticed was that it took me awhile to recognize Dylan’s voice, which seems to have dropped or at least changed style quite a bit – his trademark sneer is toned down quite a bit, and the cadence and placing of his words seems very deliberately off-kilter from the well-familiar version (something I’ve heard from people who have gone to see him these days). The now-classic “Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door”* sounds relatively unchanged (having been released the year before), but others didn’t fare as well. Maybe the rambling style of his earlier songs was something he felt shouldn’t be duplicated – to hear an attempt to recreate something like “It’s Alright Ma, I’m Only Bleeding”* sounds strange, as there’s so much to it and it just feels like a strangely intimate open letter society rather than a proper song/stadium rocker. The Band, for their part, sounded in fine form (and recognizable), adding a little energy to their classics I do know – “The Weight”, “Up on Cripple Creek”, “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” – while impressing me with the ones I didn’t, which will be getting some re-listening as I try to figure out where I wanna drop in with The Band (probably the Brown Album, but still).

Pink Floyd rounds out the list with a live recording from before the release of even their first album, titled London 1966/1967. When I saw this, I immediately thought it would be an interesting artifact to hear – the band really developing their chops at this point, albeit with original bandleader Syd Barrett, rather than David Gilmour with whom they’d go on to much greater fame. The album consists of two ten-minute plus psychedelic jams ““Interstellar Overdrive”, which does appear on their debut album, though in much shortened form. Here it’s made clear that it’s their live freak-out showcase, with very little in the way of structure – apart from a bit of a descending riff to start out – as the band ebbs and flows and Syd with his trusty echo effects attempts to play parts of his guitar which were not necessarily intended to be played as an introduction to the more anarchic sections here. The other track is entitled “Nick’s Boogie”, based on a little ditty played by Nick Mason on his toms at the start of the track and the jam builds up from nothing, as the band members peek their heads in further and further, coming in only very intermittently with very strange noises weaving in and out. It’s great to see all the ingredients of a freak out, but what you are seeing is really the clay with would form to become the songs on The Piper at the Gates of Dawn. Not an experience I will turn to often, but if I’m lying on the floor in a daze, it might be the perfect thing.

Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds

“Jack the Ripper”

“The Mercy Seat”

Bob Dylan & The Band

*Being unable to find the versions of these songs from the album, I will give you more or less the original versions so you get some idea of where I’m goin’

“Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door”

“It’s Alright Ma, I’m Only Bleeding”

Pink Floyd

“Interstellar Overdrive”

 

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Panic! Attack, Part 1: A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out

Welcome to my non-consecutive (currently) five-part series taking a look at the discography of Panic! at the Disco (formerly ‘Panic at the Disco’, who was formerly ‘Panic! at the Disco’). At only four studio albums (and one live one), their oeuvre is not particularly daunting, and I’m particularly curious to see how they have evolved their sound. My only memory of them from when they broke out in 2005 is the one line from the chorus “I Write Sins Not Tragedies”, but other than that particular vocal I remembered absolutely nothing. At this time, I was heading backwards into music’s history (I have a distinct memory of my friend Nik walking into my dorm room, handing me a huge shoe-box of CDs and saying “this is ‘A.'”), and was really selective about what I put in my ears, with much of my palette consisting of The Beatles and Pink Floyd. Since that time, I hadn’t really given them a thought until my lovely girlfriend Chloe told me that they were one of her absolute favourite bands. Not even knowing that they were still producing music, and after a little chin-scratching, I decided the only thing for it was to see what was up with these guys. The prospect of widening my tastes and having more music to listen to is one I find terribly exciting!

The first thing that struck me listening to A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out is that singer Brandon Urie is all over this album! He rarely stops to break, but that’s because he’s not just the singer of the band – he’s also the emcee. The album begins, appropriately, with “Introduction”, where someone’s clicking down the dial on a radio and looking for something that speaks to them before hearing “Ladies and gentlemen, we proudly present a picturesque score of passing fancy”, everything very much muffled and distant before we delve into the meat of the album a few seconds later as we accept out invitation to this world.

“The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide is Press Coverage” begins the album proper as an invocation and a pledge to the audience that they’re going to get a show if they only promise to pay attention (much like Queen’s “Let Me Entertain You” or The Beatles’ “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band”) – “Swear to shake it up/if you swear to listen” rings the chorus. The song is all about establishing that relationship with the audience up front, as Urie and the band will be your guide through this world so you gotta know you can trust them going forward (“Don’t you see/I’m the narrator and this is just the prologue?”). Nowhere is this more evident than in the first few seconds of the song where it’s made clear that you are not just listen, but you are having a conversation – “Sit tight/I’m gonna need you to keep time/Come on just snap snap snap/your fingers for me”. All very well and good, audience participation is encouraged. It’s that the next line is “Good good/now we’re making some progress” that makes you take a step back and go ‘whoa, he’s paying attention’.

Not that it’s difficult to keep your ear on the beat. There’s a lot of straight ahead backbeating and guitar crunching with the amount of swagger appropriate to the theatricality of the show. The energy is so high here and things move at such a swift pace it’s easy to miss things as they go by – a few bars of out-and-out EDM spring fully formed out of the bridge and we whip by a quiet multi-faceted harmony before launching back into the chorus.

That first song is a great example of what makes the album such a joy to listen to – it’s clear that the band’s influences are legion and they’re eager to get as many of them into the proceedings as possible (hence the “passing fancy” of the introduction). They have thrown everything on this record, hung on the skeleton of the tried and true guitar-bass-drums punk rock format. “Nails for Breakfast, Tacks for Snacks” begins with a great overdriven synth riff that wouldn’t sound out of place on a Metric track; “London Beckoned Songs About Money Written By Machines” features a space reserved for a gain-drenched drum kit to pound around; “Intermission” is part-synthesizer disco track until the interruption and apology by our radio announcer friend before moving into a frilly classical-sounding piano piece.

Each track on the album is a little journey with all the parts with different instruments, tunes and beats that build up to the chorus – the unison section of “But It’s Better If You Do” is casual demonstration of the band’s skill while still keeping things terribly exciting before the refrain comes around again and everyone can relax (comparatively speaking). “I Write Sins Not Tragedies”, the album’s and possibly the band’s most popular single begins with a riff on a plucked cello with some bowed bass notes and a xylophone tinkling the rhythm away during the verses – another nod to the influence of classical music on the band – before launching into the straight-ahead thrashing of the chorus while nodding and adding “Seriously!” when Urie asks “haven’t you people ever heard of/closing the goddamned door?”

As an album written with a clear love of music in every corner and an equal love for all things proper and theatrical (“Please leave all overcoats, canes and top hats/with the doorman”, Urie requests in “There’s A Good Reason These Tables Are Numbered Honey, You Just Haven’t Thought Of It Yet”), A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out is one of those very rare debut albums that quite possibly gets out everything the band wants the public to know about it while maintaining a certain cohesion and boundless energy. 40 minutes from open to close, Panic! makes their statement without wearing out their welcome and having you itching to get back to that world at your earliest possible convenience.

“The Only Difference Between Martyrdom and Suicide is Press Coverage”

“But It’s Better If You Do”

“I Write Sins Not Tragedies”

Happy Anniversary. 🙂

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Modern Concepts: The Dear Hunter’s Act I: The Lake South, The River North

There’s no way I wasn’t going to like The Dear Hunter from the get-go. Look no further than the title of the first album: “Act 1”. If that doesn’t bode well for a concept album-loving nut like me, I don’t know what will! In fact, the reason that I looked this band up in the first place is that, much like Coheed and Cambria, all of of their output (at the time) was devoted towards following a single narrative over multiple albums. This was all I needed to hear – and I was not disappointed.

“Battesimo del Fuoco” has the honour of being the third-most listened-to song in my iTunes (it has stiff composition), and opens the album, in my opinion, perfectly. A majestic modern Greek chorus announces the protagonist, born into the world amidst serious strife, as we will find out in two songs or so as the story opens. An interlocking chorale with no instruments to be found, each vocal line interlocking with the array of harmony vocals behind it as we are told “the flame is gone/the fire remains.” This, combined with the somewhat gentle instrumental that follows (“The Lake South”), both about two minute introductory pieces, would not nearly prepare me for the onslaught of the rest of the album, as I thought I might be getting some standard orchestral prog flare to this tale, so I sat back with my cocoa and prepared to soak it in. I was not ready for “City Escape.”

A rhythm section barrage starts off the proceedings as a guitar comes needling in, and then sets the rhythm, barely able to keep itself under a breakneck pace, clenching its fists as more harmony vocals come in, masking the assault of the chorus that is about to come. Casey Crescenzo screams the song’s refrain, both aggressive and verbose – “plagued by practical/and a mercenary lust/they tear at her skin” – while the bass rumbles and the drumsticks are finally let loose to wander as they please. The song the weaves back and forth, switching from piano, to electronic effects, to more choral vocals to slow the tempo down before unleashing the chorus once again, showing off an impressive arsenal of instruments for what is essentially a solo project. We even hear some animated trumpet lines in “The Pimp and the Priest”, which has a vague New Orleans feeling about it, with the brass, jaunty piano and shuffling 3/4 time.

As the story is detailed of the protagonist’s mother raising her son in a whorehouse, we move through a number of almost uniformly muscular six-minute songs. Each has its own little facets and tempo changes and a killer hook; out of the chaos of just about every song on here, comes a melodic phrase that’ll lodge itself in your head for days at a time. For me, Crescenzo’s voice was the initial stumbling block. Far from your classic prog singer, his voice has a timbre heard in a lot of punk bands, and “City Escape” had me worried that there was going to be a significant amount out and out screaming vocals on the album, which is one of the few things that will get me to turn an album off immediately. Luckily, he remains just on the edge of it the entire time, which I actually find gives the album a little excitement – he has incredible restraint, but gives the illusion of none.

To be honest, I’m not entirely sure of the scope of the story just yet, for a few reasons: a) only half of the albums in the story cycle are out as of right now b) Acts II and III are Leviathans compared to the scant 40-minute running time of this album (I initially heard it described as an EP, which I goggled at, but made more sense once I saw the length of the other albums) and c) I can’t stop listening to this one. Top to bottom, there’s not a duff track here, and it doesn’t overstay its welcome. Always one of my go-to albums. Not that Casey Crescenzo is making it easy to pick one.

Since releasing the first three acts, The Dear Hunter has taken a break from the narrative and has produced both a standalone, non-concept studio album (Migrant), and a set of nine EPs based on the colour spectrum called The Color Spectrum, each EP carrying with it its own distinct style of music, but all thoroughly enjoyable. I’m eagerly anticipating his next release, but will be listening to this pretty constantly  until that arrives.

“Battesimo del Fuoco”:

“City Escape”:

“The Pimp and the Priest”:

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God save strawberry jam and all the different varieties: The Kinks Are the Village Green Preservation Society

Having watched The World’s End the other day, it put me in mind, of course, of Hot Fuzz. That, in turn, put me in mind of Village Green Preservation Society, the only album I know by the Kinks and the only real non-Beatles British Invasion-er album I know intimately. It was Hot Fuzz that first put onto the album, with the title track appearing during Nick Angel’s morning jog through the town, foreshadowing the town’s obsession with its old British ways and fear of change. The album deals with very much the same thing, 40 years earlier.

The title track has the narrators claim to be parts of groups with increasingly silly names, all of which are concerned with sticking to the status quo and trying to upkeep old traditions (“God save little shops/China cups and virginity”), while at the same time preventing any progress or change that might encroach on that goal (“The Office Block Persecution Affinity”, “The Skyscraper Condemnation Affiliates”). Upon hearing this in full for the first time, I was bowled over by the tongue-in-cheek nature of the song, but also the close harmonies and cheery, pastoral feel to the proceedings.

As I implied, it was my first exposure to much if any non-Beatles British Invasion music, and it surprised me hearing the more observational lyrics rather than the Beatles’ love and psychedelia – it gives a little more of a picture of what 60s Britain might have felt like and what the perception of the youth of the time was. Village Green Preservation Society was clearly a dig at the previous generation’s traditions and outrage at the actions of the next one. It’s a tale as old as time, but fascinating from this particular vantage point.

It’s not only a look back at people’s outdated, rural notions, but also of people gone by as well. “Do You Remember Walter?” recounts a childhood friendship, when “We said we’d fight the world/so we’d be free” and “buy a boat/and sail away to sea”. the first part of the song builds up all of the optimism and ambition of youth that, as we get towards the last verse, slowly deteriorates as life gets on – to the younger generation, very much a betrayal of the notions they still hold dear. “I bet you’re fat and married/and you’re always home by half-past eight” ponders the narrator, content in the fact that “people often change/but memories of people can remain” – another example of the way things used to be being much better than they are now.

“Last of the Steam-Powered Trains” was always my favourite track. It has a kickin’ harmonica riff, and, instead of a key change near the end, the song kicks up the tempo and gets faster, which I did and still do think is a brilliant way to kick it up a notch. The narrator goes on about he’s “the last of the good old renegades”, for whom “all this peaceful livin’/Is drivin’ me insane”. “Johnny Thunder” tells the tale of an old renegade – a badass who wouldn’t listen to reason and wouldn’t ever grow up and rejects everyone else pleas for reason, but is still prayed for by “sweet Helena”. Over and over on the album, these youthful figures of badassery are portrayed, but always surrounded by nothing to rebel against and quite alone in their quest – the ultimate fear of your ideals and anger fading away, ’till you’re not quite sure what you’re holding onto any longer.

With a solid 15 tracks – each memorable, cheeky and deftly played – Village Green Preservation Society is an album that I will always return back to every now and again when I’m in the mood, and I always manage to get a little more out of every time. It’s successfully been catalogued with the ‘nostalgia’ stuff in my brain, it’s been long enough. I intend to explore more Kinks’ albums in the future, as their talent becomes more and more apparent as I re-listen, but this album is always going to hold a special place for me in their oeuvre.

“The Village Green Preservation Society”:

“Last of the Steam-Powered Trains”:

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