May 12th, 2012 | Doctor Curio

The BeauBowBelles: Strange and beautiful…

The BeauBowBelles

Hello, hullo, hallo and ‘ello! How the deuce are we all today? Good? Excellent… Now the pleasantries are satisfactorily dispensed with, let’s get down to brass tacks here…. who fancies a spot of time travel?

Trust me, it’s about time to escape the modern jungle, before it swallows you into its malevolent darkness, never to return. The future is here, and it’s…a bit rubbish, frankly.

Our current era simply has no class. Social interaction has been replaced by digital isolation, all charm has been usurped by colloquial, neological dribblings of little consequence, and men wear girl’s trousers and pink cardigans.

Something has gone terribly awry, here, and, personally, up with it I shall not put. I’m out of here.

I wish to return to an era where the women were elegant and sweet, the men were suave and chivalrous, and no-one responded to pieces of new information by saying ‘is it?!’. I’d also love to avoid economic recession and the rise of the far-right, but, on balance, you can’t win them all, so I’m setting the controls of my home-made phonographic time-machine for the 1930’s.

All I need to do to programme my journey to musical Nirvana is to inject the machine with a potent dose of the appropriate sonic fuel. To that end, there can be nothing more powerful than the sublime sounds of London’s finest cabaret-chanteuse classicists the BeauBowBelles. Huzzah!!

A five-piece, multi-instrumental, nostalgia-bedecked harmony-machine, The BeauBowBelles are authors of timeless, jazz-inflected melodramas that, in the wrong hands, might be dismissed as ‘retro’, but, thanks to their sheer style and vigour, are stunningly anachronistic, fiendishly catchy examples of the finest songwriting you will ever hear.

Though the swinging sounds of the 20’s and 30’s may be their starting point, the panache and invention with which they deliver their gleaming treasures allows them to effortlessly transcend their influences.

The focus for their wondrous muse is the incredible, close harmonies of their feminine front-line. Having been trained at some of Britain’s foremost opera and classical music schools, they combine flawless talent with crystalline tunes, and, most importantly, the ability to enthral and entertain.

Together, these four ladies and one gent are mistresses (and master) of a variety of weird and wonderful instruments. In addition to their voices, guitar, cello, flute and violin, you are liable to find them wielding such implements as keytars, stylophones, toy pianos, glockenspiels, accordions, various bells, whistles and what-not.

With this veritable cornucopia of curiosities, our intrepid, should-be-famous five craft impeccable opuses of unimpeachable opulence, from lascivious tangos to haunted waltzes, and deliciously decadent cabaret to sublime swing, all peppered with elements of classical music, folk, skiffle, music-hall and more, and lathered lusciously with heavenly harmonies.

As you’d expect, this makes for an intriguing melange, but the BeauBowBelles’ oeuvre goes far beyond being merely ‘interesting’. This is some of the most scintillating, enrapturing music our era could ever hope to produce, delivered with enough flair, drama and sultriness to render you helpless in the face of their myriad charms.

Most often, you will be able to stumble joyously across them in one of London’s classier, if cosier, venues, or perhaps at a festival (as was the revelation that greeted many a stunned punter at last year’s Glastonbury). Something else is afoot, though, as, for the moment, they have slightly reined in their normally frantic gigging rate.

‘Why’, I hear you scream in befuddled consternation. It’s alright, don’t panic, breathe… the reason for their elusiveness is actually a cause for celebration- the BeauBowBelles are recording their debut album! Crack open the champagne!

Though one cannot speculate on the full gamut of delights that will be in store, you can find the first four tracks on their website, and, needless to say, they are absolute gems, presaging something that should be utterly spectacular.

Hopefully, it will send them hurtling heroically toward the stratosphere of mass renown, but, before they set off, make sure you fully acquaint yourselves with this astounding, ineffable and utterly charming band.

The BeauBowBelles are the classiest act in town, and the only one capable of casting the dross of the modern age to the wind and transporting you through time to music’s golden age. You are strongly advised to seek them out, post-haste.

Yours chronomaniacally

Dr. A.F.W Curio.

Links:

Myspace

Website

Facebook

Soundcloud

Twitter

Youtube search results

Videos:

The BeauBowBelles: \"Hot Feet\"

The BeauBowBelles: \"Tingle\" (live)

The BeauBowBelles: \"Banger\" (live)

The BeauBowBelles: \"Boy With A Boater\" (live)

The BeauBowBelles: \"Alien Tango\" (live)

The BeauBowBelles: \"Woody The Wonder Dog\" (live at Glastonbury 2011)

May 6th, 2012 | Doctor Curio

Left Lane Cruiser: Country Life in the Fast Lane…

Left Lane Cruiser

Yowzaaah!!! Er… ahem… excuse me…. that was a tad unrestrained of me. I meant to say ‘good day, sirs and madams’, but I was possessed by the malevolent spirit of rock’n'roll, and…well, you know the story.

I probably shouldn’t have programmed the voice of Robert Johnson into the blasted SatNav. The blighter led me to the wrong crossroads. Anyhoo, if I am damned to be inhabited by the Devil’s own music, so be it. I’ve lived with worse. I once shared an apartment with Don Juan, you know. Barely slept a wink in three years. Thin walls.

Let me cast my grumbles to the wind, however, as we are convened to speak of music, and thus, of music we shall speak. You do like music, I trust? If not, I’m afraid you’re in the wrong place. Allow me to redirect you to my colleagues at dullbraindeadmusichatingnumbnuts.com. Bye then.

So, onward. My attentions have been hijacked by some of the greatest rock music known to humankind, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Forget food and water. All I need to sustain me now is Left Lane Cruiser.

These guys are the real deal, rock outlaws who present a united front against the zombified dullards of modern music. Together, they form an unstoppable force against musical mediocrity.

The thing is, there’s only two of them. Fortunately, they possess enough firepower to comprehensively outgun everyone else.

I love a two-person band. There’s something about the purity of the creative companionship, the symbiosis of two equal musical minds, that seems iconic, a classic case of ‘us against the world’ headstrong-ness, the band-as-gang mentality stripped down to its essentials. Two heads are often better than four.

Who are they? Well, they are Brenn Beck (most certainly NOT to be confused with the demon Glenn), a drummer who probably whittles his kit down to dust by the end of every gig, and Frederick “Joe” Evans IV on vocals and the most sizzlin’ hot slide guitar you’ll ever hear.

Straight out of Fort Wayne, IN, (a.k.a Nowheresville, the Midwest), they are the the world’s premier bassless hillbilly-blues-punk duo. Sounding like a chainsaw massacre in a trailer-park moonshine factory, they’re hairy, scary and downright brilliant. Or, as the kids say nowadays, fuckin’ awesome, dude!

This is the heaviest sound you’ll ever get out of two people. Unless you drop two morbidly obese folks on to a metal roof from a great height. Boom boom. In all seriousness, though, you won’t miss the bass. The combination of thunderous battery and heavily-distorted resophonic guitar possesses all the skin-searing, white-heat fury of a heavily-hungover Slayer. Yowee.

Their music has grown like their facial hair, getting progressively gnarlier, yet more luxuriant over the course of their four studio albums. Rough ‘n’ ready, yet refined, they are masters of the occult art of classic blues-rock songwriting, adding the odd righteous gospel tinge and swinging beat to their high-octane punkabilly onslaught.

Their frequent collaborations with genius organ-donor the Reverend James Leg/John Wesley Myers/him out of the Black Diamond Heavies have also yielded some stunning Southern-fried keyboard rock to their cannon. Prolific, proficient and perfect in every way, these boys are bringin’ it on home in fine style.

This is what America should sound like. The proud nation of rock’n'roll was founded by outlaws, opportunists, vagrants and big personalities, and this is reflected in glorious technicolor in the Cruiser’s bludgeoning, back-to basics raw rockin’.

This music will make your blood pump faster, fill your head with evil thoughts, and make you want to jump into a swimming pool full of whiskey. Not many things can do that.

From Beck’s high-speed groove to Evans’ filthy riffery and squealing solos, it’s all good. Add to that the fact that Evans’ vocals sound like he’s drunkenly howling something about ‘messin’ with my woman’ from the back of a speeding pick-up truck, and you can’t fault ‘em. This is some real good shit, y’all.

All I want to do, all day and all night, is fill my head with Left Lane Cruiser. My garrulous, bibulous praise, however, may not be enough to seal the deal for real. You need to hear them for yourself. Go on, get your Cruiser on, and prepare to be taken on the wildest ride of your life. This is real music, and it’s all that matters.

Yours irascibly,

Dr A.F.W Curio

Links:

Myspace

Facebook

Last FM

Spotify

Youtube results page

Videos:

Left Lane Cruiser: \'Black Lung\'

Left Lane Cruiser: \'Big Momma\'

Left Lane Cruiser: \'Hard Working Man\'

Left Lane Cruiser: Deep Blues Festival

Left Lane Cruiser: \'Wash It\' (live)

April 29th, 2012 | Doctor Curio

Gay Paris: L’art du ROCK!!

Gay Paris

Hullo, comrades of crazed musical consumption and aggressive audio amour!

Today, I am mostly having fun. For the consummate professional music fiend such as myself, this is something of an anomaly. After all, I take music very seriously indeed. For me, it makes the world turn, albeit to a rather funky, thoroughly invigorating rhythm.

Of course, though, the ears are a pleasure centre equal to any other body part you might care to imagine (and thinking about such things sure can be fun). Sometimes, you need something to stimulate your M-spot.

My current band du jour do just that, but will take you roughly, vigorously and unexpectedly in ways you’d never realised were possible. If at first it feels a little unusual, perhaps painful, even, relax, lie back, and let yourself enjoy the experience. Before you know it, you’ll be loving every minute.

But just who are these depraved musical perverts, and why does their music make me tingle in funny ways? Well, they are the mighty Gay Paris, and, I must confess, I love the Rock. I could happily devour the Rock, and take it forcefully in my ears all day long. Their Rock is massive, impressive, and throbbing with visceral power. Get this Rock in you now.

One listen, and you’ll be gagging for it all the time. They are so much fun, you’ll never want to stop. I certainly seem to have formed a rather dangerous addiction, but I don’t want to go to rehab. No, no, no. I’m having far too much fun.

What Gay Paris do to me sends me into a thrilled delirium, from which I’m not sure I’ll ever recover. A brash, bombastic blues-metal rush, they sound like the bastard offspring of a whiskey-sodden orgy involving Howlin’ Wolf, Pantera, Tom Waits, Black Sabbath, AC/DC, Black Flag, R.L Burnside, Led Zeppelin, Johnny Cash, Fucked Up and Hunter S. Thompson. Surely that’s a party you couldn’t refuse an invite to?

As they say themselves “We’re bringing art back to music and rock back to rock n’ roll. We’re putting the Devil in a sweet red dress and heels made for cloven hooves and makin’ God dance with him until they put their differences aside and make sweet, blasphemous love in plain sight.” To listen to their revved-up, righteously irreverent ramalama, I wouldn’t be surprised if this is literally what they’ve done.

Gay Paris hail from the environs of Sydney, Australia, but are generally too busy churning out sleazy, scuzzy, party-starting riff-rock to have time for surfing or petting koalas. They’d rather suit up, turn up the volume, and blow every venue that’s brave enough to host them to sweaty smithereens.

Though well-dressed, beneath the smart tailoring beat four blackened hearts of burnished, bruised mischievousness. They come to rock, and rock they do, blasting out heavily-amplified salvoes precision-engineered to shake the music world to its very foundations.

There is nothing in this world that comes close to Gay Paris’s full-throttle energy. You could pump an especially skittish puppy full of speed and Red Bull, and chase it with a vacuum cleaner, and it still wouldn’t match them for sheer liveliness. In fact, it would probably die, so you’d probably best not try it.

The band comprises four extravagantly hirsute fellows, namely frontman, gravel-gargler and beard-in-chief W.H Monks, axe-slinger (and possible axe-murderer) and master of the Devil’s own music Ol’ Black Tooth Marks, bass-abuser and champion gurner Slim Pickins, and Six Guns ‘Cinnamon’ Simpson, who makes like a cross between Thor and Animal with his brutal battery.

Every riff drips with gleefully malevolent grime, every lick is so hot they could strip the caked-on make-up off a drag queen standing 3000 miles away, every rhythm is so fierce they probably require a UN resolution to prevent serious bloodshed, and Monks’ lyrics are rip-roaringly raucous, and most often hilarious, chronicling the life and times of the backwoods heavyweight hedonist in a gloriously demented growl that would make a rabid Rottweiler wet itself.

They ain’t for the faint-hearted, no sirree. For anyone who loves their music loud, exciting, and packing enough of a punch to knock them headlong into the next dimension, Gay Paris shall be your new heroes. I strongly advise you get your groove on to these fine, furious fellows. After all, from the sound of them, you wouldn’t want to displease them…

Their debut album, ‘The Skeleton’s Problematic Granddaughter’, is unlikely to be filed alongside family-friendly favourites, but is without a doubt the most explosive, exhilarating, unhinged and unquestionable statement of bad intent to grace the international music stage so far this century. Containing charming little ditties such as
‘Future Wolf And The Gay Parisian Milk Incident’, ‘House Fire In The Origami District’, and the anthemic ‘My First Wife? She Was A Fox Queen!’, you know you’re in for a wild, weird ride.

Gay Paris will probably leave you in a battered, bruised heap on the floor, streaked with sweat, blood and other fluids, wondering what the hell’s happened to you, but begging to be subjected to it all over again. When a band can do that to you, they’ve gotta be damn good. Shove ‘em in your ears, and let ‘em fuck you up. You know you want it.

Yours violatedly, but happily,

Dr A.F.W Curio

Links:

Band Site

Myspace

Facebook

Twitter

Last FM

Youtube results page
(best not scroll too far down this one…)

Videos:

Gay Paris: \'The Black Tooth Supper Club\'

Gay Paris – \'House Fire In The Origami District\'

Gay Paris – \'My First Wife? She Was A Fox Queen!\'

April 25th, 2012 | Doctor Curio

Levon Helm, 1940-2012: the last waltz…

Levon Helm

My apologies if today’s Phonovault post seems especially downcast, but my usual exuberance would be inappropriate. A hero has passed. Levon Helm is gone from this world, and our planet is a poorer place for it.

To many, his name is familiar, if not a household name. Some know him only as ‘the drummer from the Band’, an epithet that carries legendary status in its own right, but comes nowhere near to doing Helm full justice. Those who are thinking ‘The Band? Weren’t they just Dylan’s backing group?’, I would give you a particularly withering tongue-lashing, but, in our collective moment of loss, all is forgiven. If that is your only experience of the Band, you will doubtless have your eyes and ears opened, and your lives transformed, by the joy of discovering them.

Such joy, though, shall be tempered with sadness. Though he had been suffering from the cancer that claimed his life for a while, his steely determination and indomitable spirit, even at the age of 72, led him to conceal his illness from the public as he forged onward into ever greater musical territories. His passing came as a shock to many, myself included. The vigour and vitality of his most recent recordings seems so at odds with the deteriorating state of his health, but it makes one thing clear: whilst there was still music to make, there was no way in Hell Levon Helm was going to give in. To reiterate- what a hero.

Though I wish it hadn’t come so soon, it is now time to celebrate the life, achievements and sheer magnificence of Levon Helm. One of the most distinctive voices in rock, and certainly the strongest-charactered vocalist in the Band, his modest, charming personality compelled him to deliver his superb tunes whilst seated behind a drumkit, despite being a highly-accomplished multi-instrumentalist and master songwriter. He never needed the limelight, but the music sure needed him.

A true pioneer, he and his comrades in the Band single-handedly birthed country-rock, but only Helm managed to keep pushing the envelope further. Of course, one can’t blame messrs Manuel or Danko, who both lost their lives tragically early, and whose stratospheric talent shall never be forgotten. Garth Hudson, mainly noted for his technical abilities as opposed to writing, remains sought-after as a session-man for his intuitive musicianship, and Robbie Robertson, once the Band’s guiding light, continues apace, even if he seems to have deserted his once-impregnable inspiration in favour of a less-challenging route through ill-advised collaborations and staid re-tramplings of his own musical backyard.

Levon Helm may have stuck to his country guns, but he did so thrillingly. His latter-day albums, ‘Dirt Farmer’ and ‘Electric Dirt’, represented a stunning creative revival, and were rightfully lauded by music fans and critics alike, both justly picking up Grammys, an almost unheard-of occurrence for consecutive albums by the same artist. Following these, his live album, the culmination of his legendary ‘Ramble’ sessions, entitled ‘Ramble at the Ryman’, won him the third Grammy in a row. Can you think of anyone else who could manage that? Me neither.

Throughout his unparalleled career, there have been several constants. His soulful, gravelly backwoods twang, his rangy, versatile drumming, his songwriting prowess, his understated textural embellishments on a range of other instruments, and, most importantly, his evident love of, and feel for, the music he plays.

With the Band, he co-wrote and sang the majority of their all-time classics, ensuring his musical immortality. A true Southern farm-boy, born Mark Lavon Helm to Arkansas cotton farmers, and raised on a diet of bluegrass, then early rock’n'roll, he realised the importance of rhythm early on. Despite trying his hand at other instruments, the gut-punch power of the drums suited him just fine, and he soon fell in with the likes of Conway Twitty and Ronnie Hawkins, the man who recruited the four young Canadians who, with Helm, would soon reject the orthodoxy, and their tutor, to forge their own path.

Before long, Bob Dylan, looking for a revolutionary electrified outlet for his beloved acoustic folk, discovered the band (then known as Levon and the Hawks), and realised their prescience. In spite of the loathing inspired by his ‘going electric’, they stuck by him, even though Levon had his doubts, and moved in together at ‘Big Pink’ in Woodstock. Curious locals referred to them simply as ‘the band’, and the name stuck.

Their debut album, ‘Music From Big Pink’, was an instant hit, and introduced the world to Helm’s powerful yet free-flowing drumming, and, by way of stone-cold-classic ‘The Weight’, his inimitable, earthy voice, already conveying experience way beyond his years.

As they developed, and began leaning in a more Southern direction, Helm’s vocals began to take more prominence. Though this was partially due to the waning health of tragic genius Richard Manuel, it was Helm’s singing that sculpted the classic Band sound, with the likes of ‘The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down’ going down in contemporary music lore.

During his time with the Band, Helm somehow found time to build a studio in his Woodstock barn, and there recorded the Grammy-winning album Muddy Waters In Woodstock’ with the legendary bluesman.

The Band bowed out spectacularly, with their legendary farewell concert ‘The Last Waltz’, becoming a multi-million-selling triple album, and spawning the celebrated ‘rockumentary’ by Martin Scorsese. Throughout, Helm’s performance shone, though he was later scathing about not only the film and album, but Robbie Robertson himself, who produced them.

Despite the Band’s demise, Helm remained just as creative, just as driven, and just as busy. A steady flow of solo albums ensued, allowing the world to fully appreciate just how pivotal his role in the Band had been, with his impeccable songwriting, delivery and production giving every track the feel of time-honoured classics.

That’s the main thing to remember about Levon Helm. He was a true classic. A one-off character, a timeless artist, defiant, ageless, a force of nature, music embodied. It seemed as if he’d always been there, and always would. It seemed unthinkable that he’d ever leave this world.

He achieved so much since his supposed ‘heyday’. As well as music, he maintained a parallel career as a successful big-screen character actor, something that chimed perfectly with the cast of fully-developed, authentic personalities that inhabit his songs.

In the early 80’s, the members of the Band (sans Robertson) drifted back together to continue where they left off. Sadly, Richard Manuel’s troubles finally overcame him, and, while on tour in 1986, he committed suicide. The rest of the Band were utterly distraught, and took a necessary hiatus to manage their grief.

In 1993, however, they released ‘Jericho’, and turned out two more excellent (if not so warmly received by purists) albums, before, yet again, disaster struck. This time it was Levon Helm’s turn to feel the cruel sting of the hand of fate. In 1998, his trademark husky voice had seemed to be getting hoarser and more weathered at an alarming rate. Consulting the doctors, the news was grim: throat cancer.

It would take more than a measly tumour to knock Levon Helm down, though. Still, times were tough. Unable to speak beyond a whisper, let alone sing, he kept playing, often with his daughter Amy providing not only vocals and guitar, but, more importantly, the strength to continue. This support would prove invaluable when, in 1999, Rick Danko passed away. From then on, the Band were no more, but Levon Helm soldiered on, as he always did.

Through perseverance, huge effort, and support from friends, family and fellow musicians, Helm regained his voice, and was able to throw himself with full vigour back into the music game. His ‘Midnight Ramble’ sessions at the Barn in Woodstock became the stuff of legend, attracting the likes of Garth Hudson, Elvis Costello, Emmylou Harris, Dr. John, Chris Robinson, Allen Toussaint, Donald Fagen, Pinetop Perkins, Hubert Sumlin, Carolyn Wonderland, Kris Kristofferson, Gillian Welch, David Rawlings, Justin Townes Earle, Bow Thayer, Luther “Guitar Junior” Johnson, Rickie Lee Jones, Kate Taylor, Ollabelle, The Holmes Brothers, Catherine Russell, Norah Jones, Elvis Perkins in Dearland and Phil Lesh, to name but a few.

Though relying on his guest singers initially, he gradually regained his voice, and, by 2007, was not only able to sing at the sessions, but had created the first masterpiece of his latter-day career, ‘Dirt Farmer’. It’s rhythmic brand of country-blues and folk-tinged Americana was at least the equal of Helm’s earlier works, with Band or without, and left the Judges with no choice but to award it the 2007 Grammy Award for Traditional Folk Album.

Even more amazingly, he followed it in 2009 with the self-released ‘Electric Dirt’, which was all the better for treading the same ground as its predecessor with a more sure-footed gait and Southern swagger. Naturally, it was a shoe-in for the inaugural winner of the Americana category Grammy award. Levon Helm was reborn, and nothing could stop him now.

In May 2011, Helm released ‘Ramble at the Ryman’, a live album of his 2008 performance at Nashville’s Ryman Auditorium. In February 2012, it gained him his third consecutive Grammy, again in the Americana category. To the world at large, it seemed Levon Helm was on a roll.

If only. On April 17, 2012, Helm’s wife Sandy and daughter Amy revealed Levon had end-stage cancer. They posted the following message on his website:

“Dear Friends,
Levon is in the final stages of his battle with cancer. Please send your prayers and love to him as he makes his way through this part of his journey.
Thank you fans and music lovers who have made his life so filled with joy and celebration… he has loved nothing more than to play, to fill the room up with music, lay down the back beat, and make the people dance! He did it every time he took the stage…
We appreciate all the love and support and concern.
From his daughter Amy, and wife Sandy”

Two days later, Levon Helm was gone. Until the last, he was the epitome of everything great about music. An instigator, a creator, an intuitionist, a master craftsman, a storyteller, a gentleman and a friend to everyone.

Levon Helm, true legend of music: 1940-2012. He shall be forever missed.

Yours reverently,

Dr A.F.W Curio

Links:

Website

Facebook

Last FM

Myspace

Videos:

The Band – \'The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down\'

Levon Helm \"Poor Old Dirt Farmer\" Official Music Video

The Band- \'The Weight\'

Levon Helm- \'The Mountain\'

April 16th, 2012 | Doctor Curio

Lanie Lane: right up your street…

Lanie Lane

Good golly, miss Molly! Oh, it’s not miss Molly, it’s you! My mistake, she’s my Wednesday appointment. Damn, I was looking forward to a bit of… Never mind, I suppose I should get down to business of a different kind: namely, waxing lyrical about musical genii! Huzzah! Oh, I do love this job…

Now, I’m not a religious man, but every time I discover an artist or band that brightens up the music world, and makes our drab, shabby little planet an altogether more interesting place to be, I feel I’m a step closer to enlightenment. Also, the gin helps. A lot.

Nevertheless, I feel blessed in the utmost to have heard my current musical crush, my muse du jour, the light of my…ears.

Lanie Lane is a vision (aural vision? Now I’ve confused myself) of musical perfection. Her classic-sounding songs are exquisitely formed vignettes of an imagined past that only a fool wouldn’t wish they were part of.

It’s almost as if she located the very roots of proper, old-time rock’n'roll, dug them up, and grew them under her own particular conditions until they bloomed into a marvellously anomalous new specimen.

Lane is an unashamedly old-fashioned kind of gal, longing for the days when music was all raw energy and pure feeling, before studio trickery and druggy posing curdled its original appeal. Her debut album, ‘To The Horses’, is a masterpiece, recorded and mixed in only four days with her superb band in a ‘live’ setting, i.e: all of them together in one room, bashing out the songs as Lane intended them.

Lanie Lane’s music is utterly timeless, gloriously taking the musical treasures of days gone by and refreshing and re-invigorating them to create something new, thrilling and contemporary.

Though already well known in her native Australia, and with a confirmed fan in Jack White, she is yet to receive the international acclaim that she will doubtless have bestowed upon her soon. That’s why I thought I’d try and get a word in before her reputation completely supernovas…

Lane clearly revels in the ‘rockier’ sounds of blues, 50’s rock’n'roll, country music, rockabilly, and early soul, but possesses the swing, voice and classy, sassy attitude of a jazz chanteuse, adding a refined, yet no less gutsy air to proceedings. Add to this heady brew a ramshackle, skiffle-esque charm, and your on your way to sonic nirvana, my friend.

It undoubtedly helps that she has an unparalleled sense of style, having seemingly stepped out of the pages of a 1950’s fashion magazine, with a powerful image that perfectly fits her music.

What it boils down to, though, is the songs. Oh, the songs! As great as your other retro-stylistic ladies (pay heed, Imelda May and Amy Winehouse…oh, right, you can’t, I suppose) may be, they can’t hold a candle to Lanie Lane. Only she can convey the palpable sense of authenticity and, more importantly, pure joy at making such fantastically anachronistic music.

The main thang is, the lady’s got swing. My God, she makes me want to learn to tapdance, even if the end result still involves me getting naked at highbrow public events. If so, even better.

Her voice is a thing of wonder, channelling everything from Billie Holiday, and Janis Joplin to Doris Day and even Dolly Parton, but, most importantly, remaining a true expression of her own fiery soul.

Lanie Lane hails from the former Imperial penal colony of Australia, the home of a vast amount of undiscovered sonic treasures that seem to incorporate a far greater breadth of influences and innovations than most of the rest of the world put together. Lane is at the forefront of these amazing Antipodean aural explorations.

Having played guitar since she was a child, it remains her first love, her idiosyncratic way of playing informing the style of her singing and how she writes her astonishing songs. Spanning desert-dry cowpunk, frantic punky thrashes, mariachi rhythms, sultry cabaret and more besides, whatever your taste (unless it’s ear-bleeding techno -metal, in which case, why on earth are you reading this blog?), you’ll find something to love.

Almost as soon as the young Lanie had found her way around a guitar, she began penning her own material, honing her craft over the years until she finally delivered the trove of solid-gold nuggets that make up ‘To The Horses’.

The album reflects her hard work, impeccable taste, and her incredible talent for impeccable songcraft. In her own words: “Nobody sat me down and taught me how to write a song – I think that’s an impossible thing
 for anyone to do – all you can do is listen to as many great songs as you can and hope it rubs
 off”. Well, it quite evidently has.

Of course, when it comes to fully realising Lane’s songs on record, full credit must go to her band, regular touring companions Zoe Hauptman (double bass and ukulele), Aidan Roberts (electric guitar and backing vocals) and Paul Derricott (drums and 
percussion), as well as a raft of others who lent their hands and voices to ‘To The Horses’, as what they have created is an unassailable work of towering genius.

If you love music anywhere near as much as I do, Lanie Lane will be exactly what you’ve been waiting for. The sound, the songs, the style and the smart attitude are all rolled together into an utterly irresistible package. I certainly wouldn’t want to bandy around the term ‘perfect’ recklessly, but, if such a thing were possible, Lanie Lane may well be the closest thing to it.

Lanie Lane may have one foot in the past, but the other is streets ahead of the rest of the music world. This may sound like as rather excruciating gymnastic feat, but, believe me, once you’ve heard her, you’d believe her capable of absolutely anything.

Lanie Lane is the kind of artist that will make you fall in love with music all over again. The songs she writes should, by rights, go down in history as perennial classics. Lend her your ears, and prepare to be amazed…

Yours, agog, anon,

Dr A.F.W Curio

Links:

Website

Myspace

Last FM

Facebook

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Videos:

Lanie Lane: \'Oh Well, That\'s What You Get Falling In Love With A Cowboy\' (official promo)

Lanie Lane: \'Ain\'t Hungry\'

Lanie Lane: \'What Do I Do?\'

Lanie Lane: \'Hoochie Coochie Man\' (acoustic)

Lanie Lane \'Jungle Man\'

Lanie Lane \'My Man\' (live)

April 10th, 2012 | Doctor Curio

WorldService Project: a special broadcast…

WorldService Project

Good gonzoid gravy! I must confess, today I am going absolutely bat-ape mental at the prospect of extolling the virtues of one of my new favourite bands! I’m salivating, climbing the walls and everything! Woohoooo!!

Nevertheless, I must compose myself, for the sake of all those who have not yet had the fortune to hear my current heroes. After all, I doubt spending my time laughing maniacally and dancing naked at major traffic intersections is going to be of any use to either you or to them.

So be it….*deep breath, large gin’n'tonic*…. now we may begin. Before I start, I must make you aware of an actuality which will shape the rest of this post, and your enjoyment of the musical maestros praised herein. WorldService Project are amazing. This is an inescapable fact.

What they are not, just to clarify, is a UK-subsidised broadcasting service bringing news to the wider world. I know you probably already realised this, but there are a hell of a lot of folk out there whose minds move slower than those of your fine selves.

No, WorldService Project are, in fact, the UK’s brightest, greatest young instrumental, experimental skronk/jazz/funk/everything else band. This fresh-faced London quintet are fortunate enough to remain unsullied by the stagnating effects of mainstream contemporary music. They have forged their own brilliantly bizarre path around the outskirts of the musical wilderness, and therefore deserve your full attention.

Remember these names, as they shall be your future godheads: on the saxomaphones: Mr.Tim Ower, on the Trombone: Mr. Raphael Clarkson, on the bass: Mr.Conor Chaplin, on the drums: Mr. Neil Blandford, and, in the driving seat, which also helpfully doubles as a piano stool: keyboardist, leader and prime composer Mr. Dave Morecroft.

Together, they are the ultimate innovating SWAT team, infiltrating musical convention’s hazy boundaries, taking it by force and subverting everything about it, until all that is left is the exciting, the intriguing and the unexpected. It would be as churlish to lump WSP in with the hush-puppied safety of traditional jazz as it would be to compare them to any other prescribed area of music. They are out on their own mission, and they’d like you to know all about it, as they bludgeon their way toward sonic nirvana.

It’s tempting to view WSP primarily as an excursion into the sonic unknown, but this is far from the truth. They are too fond of the immortal Groove to ever attempt descend into full-on Beefheart/Zorn/Sanders/Bailey-esque avant-garde noodling. Their ability to maintain a common thread and accessible structure throughout each piece whilst pushing all available boundaries is a wonder to hear. It’s almost WSP’s USP, you might say.

They counterbalance almost metallic, heavy funk rifferama and percussive assault with placid, intricate moments of reflection throughout every piece, stretching far further than almost any other act you might care to mention, but doing so with ease and style. It’s almost impossible to believe that they are but humans (as far as I know… then again, if this the start of an alien invasion, count me their willing slave!).

Their debut set, ‘Relentless’ showed off their myriad strengths to dazzling effect. Though the crisp production allowed each instrument and its player to be heard in their full glory, with sinuous lead lines, innovative chords and ricocheting rhythms winding around each other magnificently, the real draw is the masterful composition and arrangement.

At the end of the day, though, what really matters is how they bring the music to life. On stage, as on record, they are almost telepathically attuned to each other, solos seamlessly swooping into riffs, crescendos rolling in like waves, zig-zagging melodies and counterpoint harmonies whirling around to create a perfectly pieced-together whole. The usual adjectives that you might use to describe bands, such as ‘tight’ or ‘intuitive’, could never hope to do WSP justice.

I’m not sure I can continue without collapsing into a blubbery, adoring heap of adulation (oh my god! You guys are like…oh my god!! Waaaah!!!), so, with this, I must conclude. World Service Project may well be the finest band you will ever hear. Considering you may well meet your untimely (or timely, depending who you are) demise tomorrow, you are obliged to check them out NOW!!! Strong sentiments, but you need ‘em.

Yours polyrhythmically,

Dr A.F.W Curio.

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Videos:

World Service Project: \'In That State Of Mind\' (live)

WorldService Project: \'Bye Bye\'

WorldService Project: \'Back So Soon?\' (live)

WorldService Project: \'Change The Record\' (live)

April 7th, 2012 | Doctor Curio

The Sundresses: Loud, proud and slayin’ the crowd….

The Sundresses

Sypmphonic salutations, my lil’ chickadees! I do believe we have reached the appointed hour for me to regale you with another tale from the depths of the Phonovault!

Today I am raving my mouldy socks off to the earth-shaking sound of a band beyond compare. I refer, of course (check the title if you’re still unsure) to Cincinnati’s Sundresses, a three-piece who re-invigorate the stagnant art of great guitar music in thrilling new ways.

For far too long, the sweet sound of the six-string has been misappropriated by charlatans whose intentions and abilities fail to do it justice. Such a time-honoured tool has been used to create masterpieces, allowing the greatest craftsmen of successive generations to innovate ingeniously and shape our future. In far too many hands, however, you may as well be giving Rembrandt’s paintbrushes to a baboon.

The Sundresses are here to reverse this downward trend. Combining punk, blues, rockabilly, dark country flavours and 1930’s swing, with a hefty dose of acerbically arch, politicised lyricism, they don’t do what everyone else does, and that’s what makes them great.

Yes, we could fart about listing their influences, but, unless you’ve listened to the Sundresses, nothing else you’ve heard matters at all. These genii represent the rebirth of the Great American Band.

Best of all, they like to play loud. I’m all for subtlety and understatement, and the Sundresses are dab hands at that too, but, good Goddamn, when they turn up the volume and hit you with the aural equivalent of a cranial bludgeoning, they sure are fun!

All three members: alternating guitarists/singers/drummers Brad Schnittger and Jeremy Springer (yeah, I know what you’re thinking, ‘Cincinnati? Springer?….Jerry?’ No. not that one. If only….) and diminuitive bassist/occasional trombonist Makenzie Place are deft, intuitive musicians, up there with the best, but what really hits you is how much they seem to be enjoying themselves. It’s incurably infectious.

It was never meant to be this way, though. One of the most joyous aspects of the Sundresses is the way that, whilst being politically forthright, they don’t take themselves overly seriously. Delve a little into their history, however, and all becomes clear…

The band were initially formed in 2002 as a joke, and booked their debut show before their first practice. The following year, they self-produced and released a full-length album, The Only Tourist In Town, for friends in their local area. As far as they were concerned, the band was nothing more than an amusing hobby. Little did they know…

Not only were other people listening, they were loving what they heard. Their ninth show outside Cincinnati just so happened to be South by Southwest festival 2004. Naturally, this got them a truck-load of attention, as did their appearances there the following three years, alongside tireless (to the point of being tyreless! arf!) gigging and touring across the States.

The Sundresses DIY ethic is formidable, self-recording their material and releasing it through The All Night Party, the Cincinnati label they were instrumental in founding.

They strip music back to its bare necessities, casting aside all the fripperies and technological mumbo-jumbo that lesser bands rely on to pad out their lack of imagination. The Sundresses are a REAL band, playing REAL music for REAL people.

Loud, inventive, intense, anarchic and humorous, with a diabolical swing in their step, it’s no wonder audiences have been known to explode into outbreaks of freaky dancing at their high-octane gigs. With Schnittger and Springer regularly swapping places, and Place sporadically busting out a trombone that’s larger than she is, they have gone down in cult lore as something akin to orchestrated riots.

Then there’s their recorded output, mercifully shorn of all unnecessary production meddling, but utilising extra instrumentation, such as honky-tonk piano and brass, allowing their superb, and often totally bonkers, songs to shine. Though their attitude may be punk, their music encompasses, digests and spews out all kinds of everything.

For instance, check out their alternative State of the Union Address for the Bush government era. ‘Barkinghaus’, a furious yet often funny deconstruction of American ‘values’ that perfectly encapsulates the inherent contradictions of their nation’s war-like patriotism in alternately insightful and side-splittingly comedic terms.

What this means for us all, though the vast majority may not have realised it, is that the Sundresses may be the saviours of us all. By playing guitar music as if their lives, and that of the few surviving legends (watch your backs, Chuck Berry and Duane Eddy) depend on it, they balance the polemic power and the pure rock fury of rock music with the ability, unlike too many others, to remember to entertain to the utmost.

Their respect of music history is what sets them apart. While your average politically-minded muso might imagine that Woody Guthrie, and his barely-re-formed spawn, the exalted Dylan, are the be-all and end-all of rootsy polemic rockin’, they’ve got another thing coming…

The Sundresses mercilessly plunder all manner of music to best deliver their damning indictments of political amorality and financial greed. From the lascivious lurch of Weimar-era cabaret to spit’n’sawdust bar-room blues and raucous, slide-guitar-slathered cowpunk, they may be a ‘roots’ band of sorts, but their roots are clearly spread wider and set deeper than most.

Gleefully shambolic, but invigoratingly intense, the Sundresses are everything a great rock band should be. I cannot lie, The Sundresses are my thing. They float my boat, they tickle my pickle, they rock my world. Let them into your lives, and they will doubtless do the same for you.

Yours revolutionarily,

Dr A.F.W Curio

Links:

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Links:

Band Website

Myspace

Last FM

Facebook

Youtube results page

Videos:

The Sundresses: \'An American American\' (live)

The Sundresses: \'Zap A Deux\' (live)

The Sundresses: \'Welcome To Fantastico\' (live)

April 5th, 2012 | Doctor Curio

RIP Jim Marshall: the daddy of LOUD!!!

Jim Marshall
Jim Marshall: July 29, 1923 – April 5, 2012

It always pains me to write obituaries, as it should, but death, hopefully at a ripe old age, is not only an unavoidable consequence of life, but also an opportunity to celebrate the existence and achievements of some truly great people.

Thus it is that all music fans the world over should give thanks for the life of Jim Marshall. Though it would be impossible for most to unequivocally claim they changed the world, Marshall did just that. His legend will live on forever in his legacy to us all: the Marshall amplifier.

Do you like your music loud? Then Jim Marshall is the man you need to thank. So many of our guitar-toting icons would have been nothing without him. Those stacks behind Hendrix and the Who? The unmistakeable sounds of Clapton, Page, Blackmore, The Small Faces, Slayer and innumerable other figureheads of guitar music? That was all down to Marshall.

It was the difficult circumstances of his early life that sowed the seeds for his immortal reputation. Born in Acton, West London, in 1923, he was diagnosed as a child with tubercular bones, scuppering his chances of a full education and normal life, and exempting him from military service in WWII.

He took a day job as an electrical engineer, and, though not blessed with the strongest voice, became a singer in a band. Due to the shortage of available civilian musicians, however, he soon found himself doubling on drums.

The problem was, both he and the audience had difficulty hearing his light, breathy vocals over his drums. This spurred Marshall to devise a portable amplification system to boost his vocals. This was his first masterstroke.

For a while, however, drumming was his passion, and he strove to achieve technical mastery. Eventually, he was able to earn a living as a drum teacher, coaching, among many others, the Jimi Hendrix Experience’s Mitch Mitchell! Yet another way that he not only generated the success of the JHE, but rock music in general.

With the boom in rock’n'roll, the teaching paid well, and, subsequently, he saved enough to set up his own shop in Hanwell, East London. Initially selling drums, he branched out into guitars, attracting the high-profile likes of Richie Blackmore, Pete Townshend and John Entwistle. They regularly popped in to browse the latest axes, but all had a common complaint: their amplifiers simply didn’t do justice to their instruments.

With this, Marshall’s, and music’s, future was sealed. Recruiting an 18-year-old apprentice, Dudley Craven, he set about using his previous experience to develop a series of prototype amplifiers. By the 6th try, he was on to a winner. In 1962, Marshall Amplification was up and running.

From then on, Marshall’s star was in the ascendant. Though initially selling to UK-based acts, the ‘British Invasion’ of guitar music, followed by the UK’s status as a breeding ground for heavy rock music, had the after-effect of endearing an resultant wave of US and international bands to his products, and, before long, Marshall amplifiers became a global phenomenon.

Alongside comparable visionaries such as Leo Fender and Les Paul, Jim Marshall can claim to be the father of rock music. Without him, so many of our heroes would probably have given up on making ground-breaking music, and the world would be a quieter, duller place for all of us, and for successive generations ad infinitum.

Of course, my condolences go to Marshall’s friends, family, colleagues and anyone else fortunate enough to have been close to the great man, who can all be extremely proud of how his work has touched millions worldwide. This also applies to the recipients of the many charitable donations he made throughout his career.

So, let us all join in a salute to the man who shaped rock music, and who left this world a better, louder place. A minute’s silence, however, probably wouldn’t be appropriate… Turn up the volume, and play him out in style…

Yours resonantly

Dr A.F.W Curio

April 1st, 2012 | Doctor Curio

The Latenight Callers: tales from the basement….

The Latenight Callers

Good gravy! It’s you! It’s me! Here we are again, then, all together as we hurtle headlong into the hopes and horrors of yet another Phonovault post!

For this occasion, I must ask you to turn the lights down low, mix yourself a brandy cocktail and slip into something more comfortable, as my current objects of obsession are one class act…

Yes, allow me to draw back the curtain on your evening’s entertainment, all the way from Lawrence, Kansas….it’s the Latenight Callers!

This fine band are possessed of keen musical intelligence and knowledge, and have crafted a unique style (and, believe me, style is their forte) that bridges the historic and the modern in thrilling fashion.

Their starting point of their condensed timeline of music is the speakeasy jazz and cabaret sultriness of the 1930s, but counterbalanced at the opposite extreme by ultra-contemporary electronics and synthesizers, with a cornucopia of reference points spanning the 80 years in between, from dust-dry desert rock to Latino swing.

With such a vast array of influences, the fact that they have not only shoehorned them all into a fully-realised sound, but done so with originality, panache and attitude, is no mean feat.

Founded in 2008 by ex-bassist, current baritone guitarist/multi-instrumentalist Krysztof Nemeth and jazz-schooled chanteuse Julie Berndsen, they swiftly developed into a band like no other. The group of like-minded musicians who gathered to plot the future rise of the Callers tailored their chosen instruments to the sound required. Acoustic guitarist Ellen O’Hayer is an acclaimed classical cellist, keyboardist and drum programmer Nick Combs has a past life as a rock drummer, and bassist Gavin Mac is an erstwhile punk guitarist.

So, yes, they may have been around the block a few times, but this has only served to furnish them with the experience to create music that is fresh, cutting-edge and, quite frankly, brilliant.

Though their dense, shadowy atmospherics and 30’s noir image may nod slyly to the subgenre known as ‘dark cabaret’, the Callers readily embrace pop music, unafraid of catchy tunes and smooth grooves, and remove the irksome ‘gothic’ tendencies of said style in favour of something altogether sexier. They have been described, scarily accurately, as “The house band at David Lynch’s pool-party”. I’m sure the man himself would probably don speedos to honour this promise.

The Latenight Callers are the ultimate experience in noir pop and outright stylishness. Their sharp-dressed 1930’s guys’n'dolls image not only suits the jazzier elements of their sound, but also serves to fortify the irresistible juxtaposition with the sumptuous modern synth textures that equally shape their incomparable music.

What really impresses, though, is the sultry, smoky sensuousness of their immaculately-crafted pop songs. In an age where so many artists’ attempts at sounding sexy involve practically dry-humping your ears and screaming ‘want me!!’ in between bouts of heavy breathing, it’s refreshing to hear something that’s actually alluring, entrancing you with subtlety and sensuality. Berndsen’s smooth voice dovetails perfectly with the sleek sweep of the super-tight instrumentation.

At the end of the day, this is great pop music, played with skill, imagination and elegance, providing the ultimate riposte to the tasteless pap that is deemed ‘entertainment’ by the mainstream. The Latenight Callers prove that accessibility, tradition and modern relevance can co-exist perfectly.

Though they respect musical history, they wisely avoid the zeitgeist-sating trend for peddling shonky, lo-fi novelties, but equally realise that being ‘current’ need not involve polishing their sound to the extent that all traces of personality are removed.

Though they keep one foot in the past, the Latenight Callers may well be the future of pop music. You are strongly advised to seek them out, post haste.

Yours avariciously,

Dr A.f.W Curio

Links:

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Videos:

The Latenight Callers: \'The Tease\' (official video)

The Latenight Callers: \'Electric Park\'

The Latenight Callers \"Calaveras\"

The Latenight Callers \"Gypsy Moll\"

April 1st, 2012 | Doctor Curio

Why you should be listening to The Neil Cowley Trio

the Neil Cowley Trio

Excuse me! What the devil do you think you’re doing? It has come to my attention that there are actually people on this blessed Earth who are not listening to the Neil Cowley Trio right now! Dear God, what’s wrong with you! This is simply immoral and must be stopped at once.

I cannot understand how this has gone on for so long. I mean, not listening to the Neil Cowley Trio?! In this day and age!? It’s a travesty, make no mistake. I was considering penning a strongly worded letter to the authorities to bemoan this shocking oversight, but instead I plumped for firing off this acerbic blogological missive in an attempt to remedy your errant ways myself.

If you are listening to the Neil Cowley Trio at the moment, then there is no need to panic- you are indeed sane, and are in no need of either shock therapy, lobotomisation or a sharp wallop upside your head. If not, however, I’m afraid you are in dire need of some….*twiddles moustache diabolically*… ‘re-education’….mwahahahaha!!!

OK, OK, don’t soil yourself…. I’m not about to go all Clockwork Orange on you. I’m far too genteel for that. I simply wish to make you fully aware of your sheer folly in missing out on such a magnificent band.

First, though, a few questions, if I may. Do you like jazz? No? Well, when it comes to trad jazz, me neither. No mind. What about rock music? Perhaps a little experimentalism? Some freaky rhythms, perhaps? Do you, in fact, generally like good music? Well, if I were to confront you with an amalgamation of all the above and more, that nevertheless defies all classification and convention, I expect you’d probably be amazed.

If so, you’re in luck, as that’s exactly what we have here. The Neil Cowley Trio are here to blow your minds, steal your hearts and save your souls, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Except for not listening to them, obviously, but, as I’ve already explained, this would be a mistake that could potentially ruin your life and deprive you of all future happiness. If I were you (and thank Bahamut I’m not), that would be a risk not worth taking.

Refreshingly, it’s the piano that takes its rightful place at the fore. Neil Cowley is a man whose fingers and mind seem to be hardwired to some manner of higher consciousness, expressing deep emotion through his keys as he manipulates the sound of his time-honoured instrument into thrilling new shapes.

Nevertheless, it’s all about the combination of his skills with the stunning rhythm section of exuberantly-moustachioed double-bassist Rex Horan (who replaces the equally brilliant Richard Sadler) and drummer Evan Jenkins, who do far more than merely adding a bit of punch to Cowley’s melodic and harmonic genius, instead being as intrinsic to the overall sound as the beating heart is to life itself.

There are possible references aplenty, from Satie to Slayer, Gershwin to the Groundhogs, Liszt to Led Zeppelin, Mingus to Massive Attack, Rachmaninov to Radiohead, Errol Garner to Elbow, and Thelonious Monk to the Monkees, pulling spellbinding, borderline-pop melodies and crashing riffs from a maelstrom of syncopation, stop-start dynamics and generally jazzy derring-do.

You may have assumed that dragging jazz piano into the modern age generally revolved around the likes of Brad Mehldau’s smoothed-out pop re-imaginings, or Jamie Cullum’s Hobbity quest to return blandness to the fires of Jazz Mordor. This is a forgiveable misapprehension, but also a massive oversight. Just as the Esbjorn Svensson Trio broke new ground with their thrilling new approach, the Neil Cowley Trio have fully capitalised on the previously unimagined possibilities of the acoustic piano/bass/drums trio and created some of the most exhilarating, original, beautiful and utterly spellbinding music ever made.

It helps, too, that they’ve got the funk, in a massive way. The undulating grooves they lock into may turn on a dime, but the rhythm is king, and they will hypnotise you, gnawing away at the very fabric of your mind until you can think of nothing else.

Though trained at the Royal Academy, and having played a Shostakovich piano concerto to an audience of 1200 at London’s Queen Elizabeth Hall at the tender age of 10, Cowley soon decided to dabble in the occult world of pop, first as a solo project, then as an in-demand session/touring keyboardist for the likes of the Brand New Heavies and Zero 7, before forming the superlative chill-out act Fragile State. Alas, this venture dissolved alongside the record company that promoted it, sending him, forlorn, back to his lonely piano stool.

Such a trauma, however, was possibly the best thing that could have befallen him, as he soon realised that the brave new world of computerised music often merely served to stifle the creative force that can be channelled through more straightforward instrumentation. Thus, the piano, his oldest friend, proved to be the key to unlocking his potential, and creating some of the finest music to grace the ears of our glorious globe.

A frantic bout of composing left him with no choice but to form a band to complement his newfound musical zeal, and, fortunately, he found Sadler and Jenkins, whose understanding of Cowley’s masterpieces makes them indispensable to the power of everything they do together. The trio was born, and, together, they conquered.

2006 debut album ‘Displaced’ was rapturously received, a fact even more astounding for the fact that the band had only rehearsed the material for a single week before committing it to record in one take. Showcasing Cowley’s more muscular, focused take on piano composition, it was an immediate wake-up call to the jazz world.

This was followed by ‘Loud…Louder…Stop’, which saw the band settle comfortably into their own skin and simultaneously broaden and strengthen their unique repertoire. By now, Cowley’s deceptively complex trademark technique of hammering the keys whilst weaving subtle melodies throughout the pounding onslaught is fully realised. The trio pushed far beyond jazz, going so far as to cause sporadic outbreaks of headbanging in at least one listener (ahem, I’m naming no names, though). On the likes of breakthrough cut ‘His Nibs’, the climactic ‘Dinosaur Die’ and the rather lovely ‘Clumsy Couple’ everything clicks into place to the point of absolute perfection.

Or, at least, I thought it was perfection, until I heard the trio’s next album, ‘Radio Silence’. Just when you thought they couldn’t push any further, so they did, except this time with a gargantuan dose of exuberance and elation that turns the already-staggering likes of ‘Monoface’, ‘Stereoface’ and ‘Gerald’ into monuments to the sheer joy of making music. Cowley and the band are clearly having a whale of a time on this record, and the infectious atmosphere makes it a real treasure to listen to.

So where else could the Neil Cowley Trio go next? Having scaled such a pinnacle, what higher plane could they achieve? Well, they have answered that question irreproachably with ‘The Face Of Mount Molehill’. Having taken the acoustic piano trio template to the headiest heights imaginable, Cowley and co realised that expansion was the key to breaking new ground. Their latest album is essentially Neil Cowley with strings, and features subtle accentuation from master guitarist Leo Abrahams, though the piano is still to the fore, and Jenkins’ and newbie Horan’s rhythmic prowess still shines through clearly.

The broadened sonic palette suits them perfectly, enabling them to create a masterpiece that will doubtless see them wriggle into the affections of those with a catastrophic jazz aversion, as well as thoroughly satisfying their existing fans and followers. The traditionalists may still turn their noses up at it, but they have always represented the antithesis of all that master innovator Cowley has striven to achieve.

The driving, riff-based barnstormers such as ‘Rooster Was A Witness’, ‘Fable’ and the title track all benefit massively from the extra instrumental layers, but where this album shines is on the more reflective, gentle, bucolic moments such as solo opener ‘Lament’, the soaring Sigur-Ros-esque ‘Meyer’ (destined to achieve immortality as the soundtrack to BBC nature-doc-adverts for years to come), and ‘Slims’, where the previously subdued depths of Cowley’s compositional genius burst out of the speakers in glorious technicolour.

There is so much life teeming within ‘The Face Of Mount Molehill’, be it the sampling-meets-Rachmaninov of ‘Mini-Ha-Ha’s main theme, or the soaring post-rock sumptuousness of ‘Distance by Clockwork’, and the lush, vivid textures throughout. The main boon here, though, is the fine balance between complexity and accessibility, hinted at by previous works, but only now reaching dazzling fruition. This could well be the Neil Cowley Trio’s best yet, and the album that sees them take the world by storm.

So, basically, if you’re not listening to the Neil Cowley Trio by now, you’ll soon find yourself trailing behind the majority of the developed world. That can’t be a good feeling. You’ll feel like the Belarus of music. You really ought to sort it out, post-haste. Seek medical help if you have to, as it’s quite possible that non-NeilCowleylisteningosis is actually a neurological disorder. In essence, there would be something quite seriously wrong with you. Now go! Find, listen, enjoy, adore!

Yours parapsychologically,

Dr A.F.W Curio

Links:

Band Website

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Videos:

The Neil Cowley Trio- \'Rooster Was A Witness\'

The Neil Cowley Trio- \'His Nibs\' (live on Later with Jools Holland)

The Neil Cowley Trio- \'Fable\'

The Neil Cowley Trio- \'Clumsy Couple\'

The Neil Cowley Trio- \'Monoface\'

The Neil Cowley Trio- \'How Do We Catch Up?\'