The Spectre
©Secret Eye. US, 2006.
‟In these heady days of Winter 2006, the tide seems to be turning against the folk renaissance that's been growing for the last two or three years. Joanna Newsom's Ys seems to be the most visible target, and I've seen fellow pioneer Devendra Banhart oft disparaged in print. So perhaps the scene, if it ever was such a thing, is coming to it's close. If so, it's remarkable that in these late days, there are still albums being produced from the genre that can surprise with their originality.
The thing is, folk these days tends to tread in two separate camps. There's the blisfully mellow and melancholy, such as Iron & Wine and Sufjan Stevens, then there's the weirded-out "I take acid, me!" zanier, more experimental variety. The Spectre could be said to have emerged from the wellspring of the latter style, if it weren't for it's upbeat pop sensibility. Except that it isn't really pop. Imagine if The Residents had taken on folk, rather than blues and '60s pop. That video of Third Reich and Roll doing the rounds on youtube, the speeded up footage of pointy headed clowns hammering away in joyous abandon, that's how I imagine the recording session of this album. A studio strewn with eclectic and exotic instruments, and the participants running amok, plucking, stumming and battering with wild-eyed, joyous enthusiasm. How the hell they manage such enthusiasm, such a bewildering array of instrumentation, and such an ear for a sublime melody line, is utterly beyond my ken.
Somehow, the whole thing works. The aformentioned pop sensibility, the knack of finding an inescapably catchy hook, is counterpointed by Tara Tavi's magnificent vocal style. Beautiful, capable of a splendid sultriness, but there's something underlying that's just off-kilter, world-weary, and just a little sour. Even at her most up-front and vibrant, as when hollering over the poundings of "Just Now", there's such a sense of ... well, not quite bitterness, but a wryness, a voice expressing past disappointment.
What really glues the album together as a whole though, are the instrumental tracks. Breaking up the immediacy of the album, which could quite frankly be too catchy to bear without these gorgeous instumental breaks. They also provide a perfect form of navigation between wildly varied styles. For instance, the gorgeously rendered "Mao Meow" manages to take the listener from the off-kilter pipes of "Isittle Alili", to Child of Typhoon's Oriental pickings without missing a beat.
This release seems either to have flown under the radar of publicity, or just not been well received at all. Perhaps it's the ambition of the work. Perhaps it's because it seems so separate from what everyone else is doing. Whatever the reason, I can see the profile of this band rapidly rising. A very special release indeed.‟
The thing is, folk these days tends to tread in two separate camps. There's the blisfully mellow and melancholy, such as Iron & Wine and Sufjan Stevens, then there's the weirded-out "I take acid, me!" zanier, more experimental variety. The Spectre could be said to have emerged from the wellspring of the latter style, if it weren't for it's upbeat pop sensibility. Except that it isn't really pop. Imagine if The Residents had taken on folk, rather than blues and '60s pop. That video of Third Reich and Roll doing the rounds on youtube, the speeded up footage of pointy headed clowns hammering away in joyous abandon, that's how I imagine the recording session of this album. A studio strewn with eclectic and exotic instruments, and the participants running amok, plucking, stumming and battering with wild-eyed, joyous enthusiasm. How the hell they manage such enthusiasm, such a bewildering array of instrumentation, and such an ear for a sublime melody line, is utterly beyond my ken.
Somehow, the whole thing works. The aformentioned pop sensibility, the knack of finding an inescapably catchy hook, is counterpointed by Tara Tavi's magnificent vocal style. Beautiful, capable of a splendid sultriness, but there's something underlying that's just off-kilter, world-weary, and just a little sour. Even at her most up-front and vibrant, as when hollering over the poundings of "Just Now", there's such a sense of ... well, not quite bitterness, but a wryness, a voice expressing past disappointment.
What really glues the album together as a whole though, are the instrumental tracks. Breaking up the immediacy of the album, which could quite frankly be too catchy to bear without these gorgeous instumental breaks. They also provide a perfect form of navigation between wildly varied styles. For instance, the gorgeously rendered "Mao Meow" manages to take the listener from the off-kilter pipes of "Isittle Alili", to Child of Typhoon's Oriental pickings without missing a beat.
This release seems either to have flown under the radar of publicity, or just not been well received at all. Perhaps it's the ambition of the work. Perhaps it's because it seems so separate from what everyone else is doing. Whatever the reason, I can see the profile of this band rapidly rising. A very special release indeed.‟
Drunkenfish
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