I went to see Cate Le Bon live last week, it was the first night of her US tour and there were probably only about 30 people in the small club (now that’s what I call a cult following) which was a little disappointing and made me worry about the atmosphere. But then Cate hit the stage looking like a Wiccan Mary Quant, all Mod hair, dark eye makeup, and long black cape (or whatever that was she was wearing) and I didn’t care if there were 30, three, or 30,000 people there because she and her band were fantastic, cooking up a spiky, jangly, spooky, psych-folky noise with Cate’s voice sounding especially fine. She plays a mean guitar too and you know how much I like a girl with a guitar.
Standing at the bar after the show finishing my beer who should come up and order a drink right next to me but Cate Le Bon herself. So I said hello, told her the gig was great, and she asked me if I wanted a drink too which was very, very nice of her — I had what she was having, a Jameson’s on the rocks. First time in my life I’ve been bought a drink by someone I own records by (OK, not exactly “bought”, she got free drinks but it’s the thought that counts).
I wish I could tell you we had a profound conversation about the meaning of her songs and her influences and all that jazz, but instead we mostly chatted about the snowy weather back home and how long it takes to drive across America (her tour ends in LA). That’s me, the sad bastard who talks to sexy female rock singers about the weather and long-distance driving.
I wouldn’t say that I was a massive fan of Welsh songstress Cate Le Bon (not yet anyway) but I do find her interesting and I do love her voice which sounds like a Nico who is high on fresh country air instead of heroin. This is a rather lovely (but spiky) tune from her new album Cryk.
(PS: Turns out I actually had a mild case of pneumonia last week. Getting better now but bear with me if content is a bit thin here for a little while, I’ve been too busy shivering and coughing up a lung to write anything.)
In 2011 I was more interested in new music than I have been in a while. I don’t think I actually bought more new stuff than usual but I definitely listened to it more than oldies which just seemed, well, old, and instead I hungered for the fresh-out-of-the-box smell of young bands. Maybe after wallowing in it for so long on this blog I’m tired of the past or I’m making a final, defiant stand against the inevitable out-of-touchness that comes with becoming an old git. As a result I thought I’d do one of those best-of-year thingies, I know every Tom, Dick and Harry Blogsworth does one but what the feck, I loved these records and anything I can do to help them shift a few more copies.
1: Kaputt – Destroyer
A lot of bands have been reviving the more fashionable sounds of the 1980s but Kaputt bravely ventured into areas previously considered beyond the pale of cool taste, namely the smooth jazz and soft-rock of Kenny G and Toto overlaid with the languid penthouse sheen of Avalon. It was the sort of “luxury pop” Patrick Bateman listened to and might have been a big kitsch joke if the songs hadn’t been so damn great with the lush music sounding like an ironic commentary on Western decadence in a way that the enigmatic lyrics only hinted at. Easily the album I played more than any other this year, and they made the best video of the year too.
2: Cults – Cults
Packed with short, sharp, sugary pop tunes (and just over half an hour long the way albums used to be) Cults sounded like The Shangri-Las if they were an indie-rock band who sang deranged songs about being kidnapped and mass suicides — it was addictive, fizzy stuff like a can of Fanta. If I was twenty years younger this probably would have been number one but in the end the smoother sounds of Destroyer was slightly more appealing to my aging ears than Cults’ spiky noise.
3: Tall Hours In The Glowstream – Cotton Jones
I’m cheating a little here because this came out in 2010 but I’d never even heard of Cotton Jones until this year and I bet you hadn’t either as they seemed so far off the usual radar I feel like I’m the only person in the world who owns this album — which only makes me love it more. Their twangy, rustic Americana isn’t usually my shot of bourbon but the songs were covered in a thick layer of dusty echo that made it sound like a long-lost Roy Orbison record playing on a rusty old jukebox in an empty roadhouse bar. So gorgeously ethereal you could almost hear the tumbleweed blowing down the lonely streets outside.
4: Gravity The Seducer – Ladytron
“Slow burner” seems like the wrong way to describe an album as icy cool as this one but with Ladytron dropping their usual electro-stomp for a more atmospheric approach it took a while for me to really, um, warm to it. Eventually it’s subtle synth washes and glassy tunes seduced me (pun intended) and though I think it has one too many instrumentals its peaks more than towered over those slight troughs and with “Mirage” they produced one of my favourite singles of the year (along with “Video Games”)
5: Helplessness Blues – Fleet Foxes
I’m not sure if every member of Fleet Foxes has a beard but they sound like they do. Some of the lyrics about owning an orchard are a tad precious but they do make a lovely sound, and on their second album the arrangements and harmonies were more intricate and ambitious making them sound less like The Rocky Mountain Male Voice Choir and more like Simon & Garfunkel and The Beach Boys on a camping trip looking up at the stars in wonder. Probably my favourite album sleeve of the year too.
I’m really in no position to judge if 2011 was a good year for music or not, I wasn’t too fussed by a lot of records that excited the cool kids (and dads) like Bon Iver, PJ Harvey, The Weeknd, and James Blake so my opinion is obviously suspect. Hell, one of my picks actually came out in 2010 so what do I know? But I’m happy as long as there are even a small handful of new records I can fall in love with every year. You take what you can get at my age.
Summer Camp seem to have a thing for American teenage culture (especially as seen in John Hughes movies) and their debut album Welcome To Condale is something of a concept piece about growing up in a Los Angeles suburb during the Reagan era. Nothing odd about that you’d think, except Summer Camp are actually from London. Inspiration is wherever you find it I guess, and when it produces fab records like this who cares?
It’s the 1980s again, the decade that has kept on giving musically for most of the 21st century so far. This time it’s Brooklyn beat combo Friends who resurrect the supple pop-funk of Tom Tom Club and Neneh Cherry with wonderful results.
The sentimental musings of an ageing expat in words, music, and pictures. Mp3 files are up for a limited time so drink them while they're hot.
Contact me: lee at londonlee dot com
