Album Review: The Good, the Bad and the Queen
July 8th 2008 06:09
It comes as no surprise that the world is no Empyrean dream but Britpop's prodigal son, Damon Albarn, wants to remind you of this fact any way he can. His latest release is a rather sombre affair but despite its melancholic overtones it still manages to instill a little bit of hope in your heart.
It seems that some things never change. Or rather, the more you think things change the more likely they are to remain the same. Not since the provocative days of Blur’s reign as one of the dyads of Britpop, and their fatigued feud with Oasis, have we seen public spats and hissy fits of significant and cringe worthy proportions.
So, perhaps it should come as no surprise that during a gig in London to premiere the first single from his new band, which incidentally has no name, Damon Albarn kept on churlishly insisting that his band mates re-start the song, castigating them for their lack of focus and urging them to get it together as if they were just a bunch of insolent teenagers. Were it just a motley collection of nameless wannabes whom Albarn was upbraiding it would have hardly raised an eyebrow but on this occasion this very public tiff was aimed at a veritable who’s who of music history; legendary Clash bassist Paul Simonon (punk’s premier pin-up boy who was famously captured smashing his bass on the cover of London Calling), afrobeat drummer Tony Allen (immortalised by Albarn in Music is My Radar as the man who got him dancing) and Verve guitarist, and brief replacement for Graham Coxon, Simon Tong.
It’s safe to assume that Albarn’s rock messiah complex did not go the way of other cool Britannia era bands and is very much alive and kicking. However, whilst Liam Gallagher weathered Britpop’s implosion by hiding in a dark corner, licking his wounds and attempting to comprehend the meaning of the word ‘effeminate’, Albarn abandoned the optimistic guitar pop which characterised his Blur days and evolved towards a darker, more textured sound.
The Good, the Band and the Queen is as much Albarn’s anti-war concept album as it is a commentary about the debilitating struggles of modern life in a big city, in this case London. Not that Albarn is saying much on the subject of war but there is a strong anti-war sentiment in his lyrics as he continually alludes to an ongoing nameless war, perhaps a little too unremittingly at times.
The sombre tone of the album is immediately set by the melancholic and wonderfully executed History Song, with its simple acoustic guitar that leads into Simonon’s booming dub bass line. A saturnine Albarn pessimistically murmurs, ‘If you don’t know it now then you will do’ as the song devolves into a maelstrom of piano and guitars.
Northern Whale and Herculean, with their quirky electronic treatment, can only be described as what the resulting sound would be if Turin Brakes and Royksopp married and had clinically depressed babies. Herculean, which could easily be a Gorillaz song, is yet another diatribe against our hankering for excess and quick fixes; ‘And the medicine man here 24/7, You can get it fast in Armageddon, Everyone on the way to heaven, Slowly’. Kingdoom of Doom, Albarn’s supposed love song to the city he censures, is an homage to Ray Davies and stands as his somewhat paler version of Waterloo Sunset.
Unfortunately, the impeccable Allen, who along with Fela Kuti famously pioneered Afrobeat (a fusion of west African rhythms with jazz and funk), has a relatively low profile on the album. The reggae/dancehall influenced Three Changes and the psychedelic art-rock The Good, the Bad and the Queen are the only tracks which showcase Allen’s syncopated drumming to full effect, which by his own admission is like ‘four drummers playing at the same time.’
It seems that the entire album is wreathed in a miasma of despair but in spite of this there is a comforting warmth in Albarn’s melodies and in the dreamy murmur of his frail vocals. For all his proselytising of impending doom and gloom this is not an album that is overtly maudlin nor does it leave you heavy of heart. Albarn spins tales of a decaying city and a rapidly deteriorating quality of life but by journey’s end you’re grateful for such a cynical, world weary outlook because he’s at his best when waxing lyrical about what is and reminiscing on what used to be.
Sure, it’s sad and reflective, and Albarn is keen on hammering in the fact that the world’s in a precarious place, but there is a truth within his lyrics; maybe we’ve become too bellicose for his liking, or maybe modern life has benumbed us all. Whatever the case, the melancholic pall which Albarn casts is one you are keen to envelop yourself within.
We’re all going to hell in a handbasket according to Albarn but these sweet, wistful songs rekindle such a warm and ardent fire in your heart, you really don’t care.
It seems that some things never change. Or rather, the more you think things change the more likely they are to remain the same. Not since the provocative days of Blur’s reign as one of the dyads of Britpop, and their fatigued feud with Oasis, have we seen public spats and hissy fits of significant and cringe worthy proportions.
So, perhaps it should come as no surprise that during a gig in London to premiere the first single from his new band, which incidentally has no name, Damon Albarn kept on churlishly insisting that his band mates re-start the song, castigating them for their lack of focus and urging them to get it together as if they were just a bunch of insolent teenagers. Were it just a motley collection of nameless wannabes whom Albarn was upbraiding it would have hardly raised an eyebrow but on this occasion this very public tiff was aimed at a veritable who’s who of music history; legendary Clash bassist Paul Simonon (punk’s premier pin-up boy who was famously captured smashing his bass on the cover of London Calling), afrobeat drummer Tony Allen (immortalised by Albarn in Music is My Radar as the man who got him dancing) and Verve guitarist, and brief replacement for Graham Coxon, Simon Tong.
It’s safe to assume that Albarn’s rock messiah complex did not go the way of other cool Britannia era bands and is very much alive and kicking. However, whilst Liam Gallagher weathered Britpop’s implosion by hiding in a dark corner, licking his wounds and attempting to comprehend the meaning of the word ‘effeminate’, Albarn abandoned the optimistic guitar pop which characterised his Blur days and evolved towards a darker, more textured sound.
The Good, the Band and the Queen is as much Albarn’s anti-war concept album as it is a commentary about the debilitating struggles of modern life in a big city, in this case London. Not that Albarn is saying much on the subject of war but there is a strong anti-war sentiment in his lyrics as he continually alludes to an ongoing nameless war, perhaps a little too unremittingly at times.
The sombre tone of the album is immediately set by the melancholic and wonderfully executed History Song, with its simple acoustic guitar that leads into Simonon’s booming dub bass line. A saturnine Albarn pessimistically murmurs, ‘If you don’t know it now then you will do’ as the song devolves into a maelstrom of piano and guitars.
Northern Whale and Herculean, with their quirky electronic treatment, can only be described as what the resulting sound would be if Turin Brakes and Royksopp married and had clinically depressed babies. Herculean, which could easily be a Gorillaz song, is yet another diatribe against our hankering for excess and quick fixes; ‘And the medicine man here 24/7, You can get it fast in Armageddon, Everyone on the way to heaven, Slowly’. Kingdoom of Doom, Albarn’s supposed love song to the city he censures, is an homage to Ray Davies and stands as his somewhat paler version of Waterloo Sunset.
Unfortunately, the impeccable Allen, who along with Fela Kuti famously pioneered Afrobeat (a fusion of west African rhythms with jazz and funk), has a relatively low profile on the album. The reggae/dancehall influenced Three Changes and the psychedelic art-rock The Good, the Bad and the Queen are the only tracks which showcase Allen’s syncopated drumming to full effect, which by his own admission is like ‘four drummers playing at the same time.’
It seems that the entire album is wreathed in a miasma of despair but in spite of this there is a comforting warmth in Albarn’s melodies and in the dreamy murmur of his frail vocals. For all his proselytising of impending doom and gloom this is not an album that is overtly maudlin nor does it leave you heavy of heart. Albarn spins tales of a decaying city and a rapidly deteriorating quality of life but by journey’s end you’re grateful for such a cynical, world weary outlook because he’s at his best when waxing lyrical about what is and reminiscing on what used to be.
Sure, it’s sad and reflective, and Albarn is keen on hammering in the fact that the world’s in a precarious place, but there is a truth within his lyrics; maybe we’ve become too bellicose for his liking, or maybe modern life has benumbed us all. Whatever the case, the melancholic pall which Albarn casts is one you are keen to envelop yourself within.
We’re all going to hell in a handbasket according to Albarn but these sweet, wistful songs rekindle such a warm and ardent fire in your heart, you really don’t care.
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