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This record could not be more 80s if it was wearing a
Frankie Goes To Hollywood t-shirt while sipping a
white wine cocktail sat in a wine bar idly flicking
through a copy of The Face. Unfortunately the 1980s
revisited here is not the grainy kitchen sink angst of the
The Smiths or even the bright pop tones of Stock
Aitken and Waterman. No, it's far worse than that. This
is a rehash of the awful jazz-lite music of such acts as
Sade, Matt Bianco and Working Week. A
kind of retro fake jazz, full of shape throwing posers in
pin striped trousers with no fire in their souls. I
thought this kind of music died when they stopped
manufacturing Ford Escorts.
The slap bass and faux Chic guitars of Twlight
World set the tone for much of the record. Storm Gordon's
vocals are airy and polite, the lyrics sweetly sung but the
whole thing is so dreadfully dull. Lost On You throws a few
squawking dub effects into the mix but they jar with the
slick backing track. If this wasn't painful enough, a
saxophone then bleeds its awful tones across the track. I
guess I should declare that I have always had an issue with
saxophones. To my ears they have always sounded like the
devil breaking wind. There are saxes all over this
record.
Family Way starts pleasantly enough; an acoustic guitar
and those sugar sweet vocals. Then the bongos arrive and
the whole thing goes down hill quicker than elephant on a
sledge. It reaches a nadir when the sax parps up. The songs
are drowned in a quagmire of dated production. The bass and piano of Rocking Stone sounds like Everything
But The Girl before Todd Terry remixed them back
to life. The opening minute and a half of Cherry Blossom
Rain offers up a brief glimpse of hope: raindrop piano
notes trickle slowly down as Storm Gordon's voice finds the
pain in the silences. Then the band kick in, a wah wah
guitar line shouts loudly above the backing, bongos and -
yes - that saxophone again.
Then the band commit an act of butchery that would have
made Sweeney Todd smile: they take Prince's I Wish
You Heaven, bleach out the funk - and turn it into a nursery
rhyme. It makes Simple Minds' take on Sign Of The
Times sound like a work of genius. Really, it's like
getting a five-year-old child to try and paint the Sistine
Chapel ceiling. Imagine a wedding band comprised of off-duty priests and you get some idea of the lack of sex or
swing involved.
On Comfort Of Strangers Beth Orton's songs have
been given room to roam, resulting in a fragile and bruised
collection. It's a shame that Storm Gordon didn't take a
similar approach with the material here. When the songs are
allowed to escape from the stylistic straightjacket they
prove that beauty lurks beneath the surface. There is an
undeniable graceful bleakness to Carrion Crow: a lone cello
sends out mournful fragments of melody to tint the whispers
of acoustic guitar. The lyric exposes the base nature of
desire and the strength of the sexual instinct. It is
wonderfully played and haunting.
If you spend your weekends polishing your vintage 80s
car and ironing your Farah slacks then this will be heaven
in a CD box. If you have better things to do with your
time, like picking up litter, then avoid.
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