In previous years Reverberations conducted a marathon, day by day, countdown of the top 25 albums from the waning year. This year, between today and the end of the month, we will take a bit less ambitious approach, chronicling only the top 10 releases of 2012. In January, in addition to reviews of brand spanking new music, we will also make occasion to reflect on some of the year's other fine recordings.
For our top 10 countdown, many of these selections will have been covered previously in Reverberations, in which event we will simply link you to the earlier review. A few of these, however, will require new reviews.
Cate Le Bon - Cyrk (The Control Group)
The palette of Me Oh My,
the debut from Cate Le Bon, was stark and to the point. Its appealing,
if rudimentary, production values allowed the songs to speak for
themselves, and they ranged from the whimsical (“Sad Sad Feet”) to the
apocalyptic (“Terror of the Man”). For her follow up, Cryk, the
Welsh born singer-songwriter adds layers of instrumental texture and
embellishment, making her austere and sturdy songs even more
transfixing. Ultimately, though, it’s her sheer self-possession as a
singer that makes it hard to divert your attention, rather like the
aural equivalent of not being able to take your figurative eyes off of
someone.
Much
has been made of the Nico influence, so let’s consider that. First, Le
Bon’s vocal range is higher; her dynamic range more extreme, and her
reliance on and comfort with harmonization are greater (including plenty
of self-harmonization). Where the comparison works is with respect to a
shared melancholy affect, a certain precise diction (rooted in English
perhaps being a second language – Le Bon is also a Welsh speaker), and a
tendency to enter and accent just behind the beat. The specter of the
Velvet Underground also extends to Le Bon’s musical sensibility. It’s
the sound of loud, bright guitars and dissonant keyboards parts, as well
as a certain rhythmic lurch, you can hear it in the galloping
syncopation of the album’s opening track “Falcon Eyed,” with its “Sister
Ray” lurch.
But this is a
post-Velvet vision distinctly informed by Le Bon’s roots in Welsh music
and culture (and after all, John Cale was a fellow Welshman). Her art
just sounds rooted in the Welsh culture. You’d almost have to have
visited Wales to understand. It’s something to do with their mixture of
hospitality and reserve, welcoming and insularity, the way some greet
you warmly in English one moment only to switch languages conspicuously
when entering conversation with a nearby friend. I love the Welsh. Part
of my bloodline is Welsh. It’s a fascinating place, and some of the best
Welsh artists (Super Furry Animals, Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci … Cate Le
Bon) have a natural Welsh aura that somehow conveys the country’s
curious cross between the connected and the remote. Le Bon first came to
prominence as Gruff Rhys’s collaborator on the Neon Neon project.
Recorded in Wales and featuring an all, or almost all, Welsh cast,
including Meilyr Jones and Gwion Llewellyn from the excellent, if little
known, band Race Horses, Cyrk is a distillation of that national sensibility, told through the eyes of a very individual and bohemian female artist.
“Falcon
Eyed,” beyond the Velvet touch, also sounds like Le Bon and crew draw
from sounds that were ‘freak folk,’ before the genre had a name, the
Incredible String Band in particular, and from a stack of Seventies
Kraut-prog records that might have Faust at the top of the pile. “Puts
Me to Work,” like most of Le Bon’s lyrics, suggests more than states,
but seems to concern domestic dissatisfaction; it features bashing drums
and stratospheric harmonies, stacked at one point into a “Twist and
Shout” style build.
Sometimes
Le Bon’s plain poesy recalls the reserved acquiescence of Nick Drake,
as on the title track – Le Bon quietly insisting that “now is not a good
time to leave me all alone,” a sentiment full of portent, delivered
unsentimentally. The sweetly discordant guitar and keyboards, and those
Mike-Robin-Rose-Licorice harmonies, all add to the quiet, but roiling
delivery.
“Julia”
and “Greta” both suggest a kinship with Elliott Smith, and more
particularly with a shared Beatles (acid Lennon) fixation. These songs
have a “Strawberry Fields Forever” vintage saturation, best evidenced in
“Greta’s” blossoming orchestrations, as horn lines veer and sway
between a bluesy take on Salvation Army Band mournfulness and free jazz
ecstasy – all in support of lyrics like “you existed in moonlight before
you were born.” Thanks to Le Bon’s exquisitely reserved delivery, the
patchouli factor is present, but kept in check.
The
sweet clash between musical elements runs throughout Le Bon’s
sensibility. “Fold the Cloth,” starts with limpid guitar, slips into
Stereolab sensuality before Syd Barrett-spitting guitar goes toe to toe
with Le Bon’s angelic vocal, until the song bangs away into a sudden,
abrupt, and Beatlesque conclusion. “Man I Wanted” sounds as much like
warning as profession of affection. Le Bon glides from conversational
delivery to an eerie soprano, professing her desire to be the beloved’s
“greatest host.”
The
slightly creepy mood continues with “Through the Mill,” a rather
bestial tale embellished by what sounds like some mental patient playing
scales on a piano that’s tumbling slowly down the stairs. In a good
way.
Cyrk
(Polish, off all things, by the way, for circus) ends with a two-part
extravaganza called “Ploughing Out.” Implicitly connecting to her rural
roots, part one of “Ploughing” concerns melancholy and self-acceptance,
as she compares her emotions (“on the last day of the year I’m just
happy to be here”) to her beloved’s (“and on the worst day of his life,
he’d still love more things than I like. Taping melodies of times in his
mind”), contrasting his voracious appetite with her need for
discretion. It commences with a beautiful guitar figure, reminiscent of
the Velvets’ “I’ll Be Your Mirror,” sounding like something Wes Anderson
might easily plumb for a future film; an inventory of small blessings
and difference, it resonates charm. Part-two executes a barely
detectable shift in downward fidelity for jarring and excellent effect.
The refrain, defiant and resilient, repeats “when it goes off we’ll be
the on the last boat out of here; you’ll be the ringing in my ear, still
we never say die.” The jolly end-time mood extends to the instrumental
coda that ends the song – a feast of dueling themes, rather like the
fade to “All You Need is Love,” includes a saxophonist doing his best
Albert Ayler against what sounds like Terry Riley arranging for
crumhorns and sackbuts. And it’s all capped off with what sounds like
the guitar chord that ends … well, “The End,” by the Doors. Nice touch.
Like that chord, Cyrk lingers, compelling you to return.
Reverberating: 9.0 (originally 8.8)
