Album Review: Butterfly House - The Coral

****
In thrall to the 60's beat generation of pop musicians since the scallywag bag of bones that was their debut, The Coral have stuck steadfastly to a tried and tested formula which has, on occasion, left them sounding jaded.

Never more so than on 2005's 'The Invisible Invasion', the Scousers 4th album in just 3 years, and on which their odyssey to recapture the spirit of their swinging sixties forefathers ran desperately aground.

Since giving themselves some breathing space however, they've returned with the admirable 'Roots & Echoes' and now, three years on, 'Butterfly House' sees them at something approaching their barnstorming best.

The influence of producer John Leckie is clear - the man responsible for the much adored Stone Roses debut album - and, although it isn't fit to wash the feet of that masterpiece, there is an air of majesty to the pop hooks here that may similarly echo through the ages.

Both album opener 'More Than A Lover' and the succeeding 'Roving Jewel' sparkle with a renewed sense of purpose and lead single 'A Thousand Years' is instantaneously memorable for its brazen pop sensibilities.

Perhaps surprising, considering the departure of guitarist Bill Ryder-Jones, is the continual existence of those jangly guitar lines synonomous with the verve and infectious cascade of past glories.

'Butterfly House' is the best example with its rolicking coda of electric sqeals and riffing mastery, it's clear The Coral haven't lost any of the creative edge that so often blights those who lose a founder member.

James Skelly's lyrics, although rarely substantive, manage to capture an ethereal charm, turning "scarlet curtains hanging in the window" into a portent symbol of melancholy and the flickering lamp from behind a blind into a Dickensian suggestion of wistful existence.

The only disappointment then is that, with The Coral maturing into indie-pop stalwarts, the surrealism initially displayed on their much acclaimed debut has now all but vanished. There's not a single trace of those shambling sea shanties come 2010 and I, for one, miss them just a little bit.

Album Review: Your Future, Our Clutter - The Fall

****
A funny thing The Fall. I've been aware of Mark E. Smith for years but it's only since listening to favourite comedian Frank Skinner's radio show (in which he insists on playing one Fall track every week) that my interest has finally been piqued.

As a result I feel even less qualified than usual to offer a musical critique (this is the 28th studio album under 'The Fall' moniker since 1979).

What I can say about 'Your Future, Our Clutter' is that I've already grown to cherish its eccentricity. From the opening of 'Bury Pts. 1 & 3', which sounds like it's been recorded down a well so compressed is the sound, to the mad ranting of 'Mexico Wax Insolvent', the unique charm of the album is irresistible.

Of course there's no doubting The Fall's sound is an acquired taste. Like your fist sip of lager as a 12 year old lad, the initial reaction is to recoil from the unexpected shock, but stick with it and suddenly the idiosyncrasies begin to have their appeal. Again on 'Mexico Wax Insolvent' the nuance of Smith's repeated 'Aqua Rosa' somehow burns itself into your psyche.

There is, however, a charming delicacy on display too. Album closer 'Weather Report 2', revels in its wistful guitar, Smith crooning "You gave me the best years of my life", yet he still remains joyously cutting, "I watched 'Murder She Wrote' five times/The cast deserved to die". Perhaps in an act of glorious defiance the song ends with the line, "You don't deserve rock 'n' roll".

Similarly witty couplets abound throughout and, although most of the lyrics are spawned from an organised chaos of hotch-potch phraseology, backed as they are by a collection of tenacious tunes from Smith's current band members, the album succeeds as a delightful melting pot out of which many a crystal jewel is smelt.

Album Review: The Chaos - The Futureheads

***
The Sunderland quartet made their mark during the Franz Ferdinand incited 'art rock' vogue of 2004 with a debut album that was indebted to a string of catchy post-punk numbers, an unusual use of vocal harmony and a none too underplayed cover of Kate Bush's 'Hounds of Love'.

Since then however, The Futureheads have found themselves somewhat lost on the wiley, windy moors and were allegedly close to splitting in the wake of 2006's 'News and Tributes'. However, exiting from their major label contract and setting up home on their own independent label, they returned with a more assured sounding album in 2008, 'This Is Not The World', which, if nothing else, confirmed their future as a going concern.

'The Chaos' then, appears to pick up where their previous album left off, although this time it feels as if the band are more comfortable in their own skins somehow, happy to play to their pop/punk strengths and not needlessly throwing curve balls to the detriment of a song's impact. Certainly this album's collection of short, sharp bursts of energy seems more focused than their past efforts.

Lyrically it won't win any first prizes but at least it's quirky and informed enough to offer a few tasty delights. 'The Baron', for example, implores us, in our post recession climate, to cease pulling out our hair or, at least, 'dance as it hits the floor'. Highlight 'I Can Do That' is a worthy treatise on the trials of the job seeker, the protagonist frustratedly imploring that they can turn their hand to anything, the song ending in a comic rendition of Keith Harris and Orville the duck's 'I Wish I Could Fly'.

'Sun Goes Down' is another romping number that evokes images of 'Joy Divison's 'Shadowplay' in its couplet, 'The sun goes down and the double life begins/It's a one way ticket to a city of sins' and, although that's where the comparison with the Mancunians pretty much begins and ends, you do get a sense that Sunderland's landscape has shaped and moulded the Futureheads in a similar way to how Manchester has had its effect on so many great bands.

None of the 11 tracks on 'The Chaos' will change the world then, despite laudable attempts to make some kind of sense of it, but they are delivered with a vim and vigour that makes the ride thoroughly enjoyable. Some achievement for a band who may yet benefit from defining a cult status.

Film Review - Toy Story 3

*****
Perfect. I'm tempted to finish the review there. It might be possible to find fault with this film but its unmatched humour, poignancy, intelligence and charm render any attempt to do so entirely ungracious.

Pixar have found a way of pouring more humanity into their animation than the vast majority of filmakers achieve with even the greatest of 'live' actors.

Whereas previous installments focused on the symbolism of toys as the joy of our youth, this 3rd episode reflects the sometimes harsh reality of our transistion from child to adult. Woody, Buzz and the rest of the toys, having not been played with for years but lying dormant in a toy trunk, fear being sent to the rubbish tip as owner Andy, now 17, prepares to leave home for college.

What follows is the toys attempt at making a new life for themselves, hopefully in the attic, loyally awaiting the prospect of Andy's children of the future, or, alternatively, at the seemingly utopian 'Sunnyside' daycare centre.

As the tale unfolds we are presented with elements of horror, in particular the truly freaky child doll, and humour, the best example of which being Mr Potato Head's scene stealing turn as a tortilla (just go see the movie)!

The best of the 'new' characters though, is undoubtedly 'Ken'. His first encounter with 'Barbie' is handled wonderfully and his insistence that he is "...not a girls toy" only adds humour to his overtly camp portrayal.

It's the films finalé though, that pushes Toy Story 3 into the highest echelons of cinema. Fraught as it is with danger, drama and sadness, the characters, now having been with us some 15 years since Pixar's original 'Toy Story', face up to the end in a manner that can't help leaving you very moved.

The underlying theme, so deftly pulling on heartstrings, is that of the emotive burden of parents adjusting to the knowledge their child is no longer truly 'a child', and as with toys being passed on to a new generation, so too the parent must accept that they will no longer be called upon to be their child's favourite play mate.

Toy Story 3 is the very culmination of cinema.

Ambition Exhibition

Sometimes you read a blog, a newspaper article or, as in this case, an interview, that expresses a point of view matching one you've been harbouring for a while yet had previously doubted the validity of.
This happened to me only yesterday.

For a long time I've felt there are certain bands, championed by the music press, and even some friends of mine, who simply don't deserve the accolades or attention they receive. I won't name them specifically but they tend to be pedalling a new wave 'sound and vision' that apes those of the late 70's post punk era.

I've wondered whether it was just me, whether I was missing something, just being obstinate in my snobbery, but no, there, in a new interview with Nicky Wire, bassist and lyricist with Manic Street Preachers, was a sentiment echoing mine....

The thing with Oasis splitting, you think what is there left? All those people who moan on about the ’90s fucking everything because all the bands became too big, I just keep thinking, what are we left with? An eternity of absolute fucking indie shit that’s not connecting with anyone. There are some truly desperate people out there. They’re lower than tedium. There are bands and they’re aping Ian Curtis but they’re not taking inspiration from the deepness and the true poetry of his lyrics, they’re just doing his fucking kooky dance. They’ve made the whole thing into a cabaret act. For us, Ian Curtis is one of the great writers in any field of the 20th century.

If it's good enough for Nicky, it's good enough for me! In truth, I was relieved when Oasis split, it should have happened a long time ago, but still I can see his point here too. Where is the ambition of those 90's bands now?

For all their flaws their aim of world domination was certainly admirable. And whilst the likes of many of today's young bands pedal the worthy image of artistic integrity, in truth, they're not championing, nor displaying, the very values that made the likes of Curtis great. Indeed, it is just the 'kooky dance'! I feel like we're being hoodwinked. At least the bands of the 90's were honest.

As much as I think the Manics' last album 'Journal For Plague Lovers' (no singles but critical acclaim) is a masterpiece, there's still a little part of me that wants to see the bands I love reach number 1. That the mission statement for their forthcoming LP is as follows fills me with a sense of delight.

One last shot at mass communication

Why England Lose

Now the South African dust has settled on the sun baked dirt pitches found in the shadow of Soccer City and the din of the vuvuzela ebbs away, it feels like it might just be possible to cut through the crap, conjecture and downright silliness to once and for all paint a realistic picture of England's World Cup performance.

So how did we get on then? Well, yes, not great obviously. Given the class and status of the players that England can boast in their squad, they certainly would have hoped they could compete with the best teams in the world. Unfortunately, of course, they couldn't.

Despite doing well in their opening game, England struggled against relatively weaker opposition and inevitably fell by the way side when meeting a super German team.

A disappointment then, but should we have been surprised? Our FIFA ranking before the tournament was 8th, which would suggest a probable quarter final exit, though meeting Germany at an unusually early stage, i.e. the last 16, ultimately meant England still kept to what FIFA would suggest was their likely form.

There is an unfortunate belief in England that it is our God given right to succeed. That we really ought to be the best in the world at the game we invented. We hold puerile grudges. We still can't get over the Germans ('Two World Wars and one World Cup'). They got over us a long time ago, they really don't care.

In fact, I'd go further to suggest this stubborn mentality actually damages England's potential for success on the world stage, our literal geographic distancing, let alone our cultural divide, from the rest of the continent makes it more difficult for England to understand what's required from international tournament football.

The strength of the Premier League is ironically somewhat to blame. Our English players, remain in England, reluctant to play abroad and are therefore limited in their footballing education compared to other nations top stars.

It could be argued that Spain succeed with the majority of their stars based domestically at just two clubs but the key to that was an undying commitment to their own style of football above all else.

England historically play with tempo and power, getting to the bylines, crossing to tall centre forwards with a direct style of play (not to be confused with a long ball style). In defence, we are organised and willing to put everything on the line. It's not pretty and therefore often it is doubted in terms of its validity - fatal.

If we aren't prepared to win by being 100% committed to our own style (for better, for worse), instead wanting to compete on a technical level with the best nations, we have to be willing to go and seek the schooling, a footballing 'Grand Tour'.

Here are some of the best articles I've read about England in recent weeks. I don't agree with all that is said but it's better than buying into the notion that our 'failure' is down to overpaid stars, a foreign manager or a lack of goal line technology.

Why England Lose
Capello's Critics and Hindsight Bias'
Flawless Spain are a Footballing Pain - I Blame the English Parents
England's Identity Crisis
England's Fear of Crossing Borders

Despite the heavy dose of realism here, it still won't stop me hoping, that someone, somewhere might be able to change things for the better. 66, 90, 96 are all years in which we were proud of the England team, only once were we actually winners of the tournament.

Riding along in my automobile....

I have always had a considerable passion for the motor car.

Not in a mechanical way, or, at least, not in the sense of wanting to be a mechanic - getting under the bonnet, understanding the workings, boasting about engine capacity and priding myself on a 'go-faster' stripe - but in an aesthetic and, well, a sort of sensual way.

There's something deeply romantic about the motor car. Think of the number of songs devoted to a set of wheels, the role they've played in your favourite movies over the years, as Morrissey sings in 'This Charming Man', "Why ponder life's complexities, when the leather runs smooth on the passenger seat."

Anyone who's read J.G. Ballard's 'Crash' might confess to at least an understanding of the sexuality, the main protagonist's fantasy of dying in a high speed collision involving glamorous filmstar Elizabeth Taylor.

The smell of the leather, the reflection of the chrome, the joy of a walnut dash are all palpable when sitting in the driver's seat of an expensive sports car, resplendent in its own decadence; and that's all before the key is inserted into the ignition.

I do love to drive. Whether it be go-karting with friends or simply flooring the accelerator in my modest Fiesta.

The thrill of surging forwards, engine roaring beneath you as you watch the gauge of the rev counter flick up, drop at a gear change, then surge skywards again, is hard to resist.

Am I compensating for my repressed libido or simply just the size of my manhood? From the photos I took recently at the Goodwood Festival of Speed, it seems evident there's something going on.

***

The Festival is always held a week before the British Grand Prix in an attempt to lasso as many F1 drivers as possible into attending, but it was former champion Nigel Mansell's 1987 'Red 5' Williams that caught my eye.

I'm just about able to remember the car's finest moment when, driven to victory by Mansell in that year's Silverstone Grand Prix, he performed one of the most exciting and audacious overtaking manoeuvres in the history of the sport.

Dummying outside and then diving inside leader Piquet with just two laps to go, it was all the more impressive when you consider he had been a full 20 seconds behind him after his last pit stop.

At the end of the race the crowd invaded the circuit, bringing Mansell's car to a stop as they mobbed him with Union flags and gestures of celebration. Mounting the back of a steward's motorcycle to return to the pits, he stopped the driver deliberately at the spot where, just moments earlier, he had performed the feat. Jumping off the back of the bike and kneeling to the ground, he kissed the tarmac in thanks.