Misty's Big Adventure

Television's People

After more than a few listens, I have finally realised what a great album this is. Far too often I have reviewed albums, up against a tight copy deadline, and haven't been able to give them the listening they deserve, but I'm such a fan of the Misty's I was determined to give this a chance. Initially I was a little underwhelmed when comparing it to the highs of their previous three albums, but this is the epitome of 'a grower'.

Aging Hippy alert warning imminent; this is a good old fashioned concept album, because Television's People is a set entirely in one living room. It proceeds to tell the story about a man who is too upset to leave the house and too wrapped up in his problems to find anything that will take his mind off them. The only thing that can cut through his torpor is his television. Grandmaster Gareth, surly one of the country's least celebrated yet most outstanding writers of pop songs, has cited Anthony Sampson's book 'Who Runs This Place?' as a major influence.

"People's television (has) created television's people." Gareth claims this to be the album of which he is most proud, and after living with it for a week, I can see why. For anyone untouched as yet by the magic of Misty's BA, their music is often an enchanting mix of 60s / 70s influences. Like the library music which used to turn up in the oddest of places during your childhood, such as Roger Roger's test card music or Nino Nardini, who should have his picture on Wikipedia under to 'quirky'. Throw in the more mainstream influences of Joe Meek, Serge Gainsbourg and Phil Spector, and you begin to approach the sounds of the Big Adventure. They have also picked up the baton, previously held by the likes of Brian Wilson and Paul McCartney of having guest musicians playing various vegetables. They have chosen for that particular honour Gruff Rhys of the Super Furry Animals. This is not the instantly appealing / disposable music proffered by so many, it takes a few listens, but will reward you ten fold for the time you invest.

Vivian Bonzo

Benjamin Wetherill

Laura

Whip-thin snow-pale folk spectre Benjamin Wetherill was never going to create a nice pleasant slice of easy listening folk pop, but who would have suspected that 'Laura,' his debut album, would be such an uneasy waltz through time and mortality.

Actually, considering that the whole affair was recorded in a disused 19th Century palace, produced by A Hawk and a Handsaw's Jeremy Barnes and backed by his Hun Hangar Hungarian Ensemble, it's not surprising that there is something… anachronistic about all this. The whole album seems to be recorded in a bubble of time lurking somewhere between the wars, yet through this temporal membrane the sounds of now can be heard – birdsong, road works, the dull scream of aircraft. And there, at the centre, is the whispering ageless tremolo of Ben Wetherill.

The songs range from the seductive, decadent jazz strains of 30's Berlin, heavy with bassoon and clarinet, to the murderous simplicity of the English folk ballad, but all contain the signature rolling acoustic and unnerving murmur of Ben. For instance, 'Ada' is an Art Deco serpent of a song, but Ben is consumptive and languid. "Rest your bones, sleep in the shade," he sings mockingly; 'So Dark The Night' hoots melodiously, but the guitar loops over and over, dragging it up with the double bass then down with the violins.

There is playfulness though, but it is dark: 'When You Were Sweet Sixteen' is twisted from rose-tinted nostalgia to bitter regret via the minor key stress in 'Kissing Under Poplars'; accordians lift the mood in 'Folds in The Curtain', but accompanysuch lines as "I brought my love a spade/to bury her infected heart;" you can almost smell the sweetness of corruption.

Undoubtedly, this is a beautifully written and produced album – true, the English folk does get a bit too traditional (I lost my love to my murderous jealousy etc etc), but the delicacy of the voice and picked guitar juxtaposed against the rambunctiousness of the Hun Hangar Ensemble makes for a happy and morbid combination. A timely reminder that there can be no beauty without decay.

Rob Wright

The Beep Seals

Things That Roar

Any band that forms over a mutual love of Todd Rundgren gets a good review from me. When it turns out most of them are former Jim Noir band members I now want them to come to live in my house so I can have their babies. This album is over-flowing with harmonies, fuzz guitars, and the joys of well sung, perfectly played and produced pop songs. There are no highlights, only alternate ways of spreading a smile on your face, as from beginning to end this is a joy. The Beep Seals are so keen to get a particular sound that they picked Teenage Fanclub's Norman Blake as the producer "as he seemed to know his way around recording harmonies."

The Beep Seals as you might expect, is a Captain Beefheart reference, and why not? My big annoyance now is that I missed them supporting the Ting Tings at the Academy recently, but at least I can comfort myself with this stunning debut album. You will hear much about this album and in the absence of a new Beatles or Teardrop Explodes album, this will have to do.

Jennifer Taylor

Michael Rossiter

My Dearest Dear

Of the eleven songs on this, the debut album from Leeds-based singer and guitarist Michael Rossiter, only two are original compositions, the rest being arrangements of aged material already in the public domain. As such it's part of a grand old tradition within folk music and Rossiter has clearly been inspired by the likes of John Fahey and Martin Carthy to put it together, although he's done so with such great skill that in the process he reveals himself as an artist of considerable talent in his own right.

The dexterity of his playing is remarkable throughout and the rich, full-bodied sound of his acoustic guitar is perfectly captured by producer Matthew Leach - indeed, hearing the melodic and rhythmic potential of such a frequently abused instrument explored like this is an absolute joy. Rossiter's voice is unprepossessing, at times even slightly strained, but this is no obstacle to his retelling of the stories contained within songs which demand that the attention of the listener be shifted away from the performer and towards the plight of their long established characters.

The sheer weight of human experience which has accumulated within said songs over time seems to have been directly channeled into Rossiter's performances; it's hardly easy going and 'Beautiful His Feet' and 'The Betrayed Maiden' in particular seem invested with literally generations of melancholy. That's not to say that there's no fun to be had on My Dearest Dear - 'Edward' absolutely barrels along and David Broad and Martyn Roper of kindred spirits the Lovesick Cowboys pop up to add double bass and mandolin to the more upbeat 'Jack Went A-Sailing', 'Kitty Alone & I' and 'Come My Little Roving Sailor'. Its merits will no doubt be disputed by some, but if just one person discovers the wonderful, timeless music beloved by Rossiter through exposure to this record, he should feel rightly proud.

Greg Elliott

Pifco

Pifco A Go Go

Jumping John Paul Jones! Another guitar and drums duo who seem to think that it's acceptable not to have bass frequencies rattling the rib cages of their songs. What is wrong with you people? Don't you realise that if you take the bass out of rock music you're removing all the sex from it? Well, that's what Suzi Quatro says anyway. Of course, Pifco do have some delicious bass frequencies in their impressively solid wall of squall but it's mainly supplied by guitarist Steve's overdriven E string and the howling feedback that flows constantly from his poor abused Rickenbacker.

Meanwhile, musical partner Mary supplements her ruthlessly economic drumming with, presumably, foot pedal-triggered keyboard parts. Every song goes along at a furious pace with little room for niceties like middle eights or bridges and even when the electric noise does stop, even for a brief second, a yelp or scream is summoned to fill the void of potential silence. It doesn't take long to realise, either, that beneath the seemingly uniform and unvarying thud and thump of the songs lies a rich seam of small variations, tics and quirks that, once you've started to notice them, sparkle like jewels in a sticky black seam of tar. Some of this is down to lyrics that despite being largely meaningless and sung mostly in a nasal monotone are delivered with a surprising amount of rhythmic invention. None of the songs exceed four minutes and most come in at around the two minute mark, underlining an economy of approach that finds its apogee in the (almost) one chord work of genius that is 'The Long Island Incident'.

Johnny Ersatz-Culture

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