50 Words for Snow

An intimate winter gift

This is Kate Bush’s first album of new songs since Aerial came out in 2005. That album is one I cherish and I lose myself again and again in the complex, beguiling washes of sound. Aerial is the perfect English summertime album. Subdued and whispering, 50 Words for Snow is a handsome winter counterpart.

Blown from polar fur

It is a calmer, more intimate album than we have come to expect. Of course, intimate moments abound on Kate Bush’s earlier records, but here the dominant sound is piano with fewer embellishments than usual. The layered, spacious soundscapes are absent. This is to be listened to holed up indoors away from winter storms, chilling and warming by turns. The songs are all built around the concept of snow and the music softly echoes its magical fragility. We are never trapped Under Ice.

New material from Kate Bush, so rare, is always exciting as she offers so much. Her voice is captivating, the production lush and meticulous, but I relish most the elements of play and surprise. The ideas are fully formed, the characters speaking as clearly as her Cathy in Wuthering Heights, but we are never sure what will happen next. Aerial gave us blackbird song, Renaissance viols and Rolf Harris. 50 Words for Snow is not so dazzling or puckish, but subtle twists still bring smiles and no less so for their quietude.

There are the small, teasing details. In Lake Tahoe, the music pauses and Kate gasps; at the beginning of Snowed in at Wheeler Street, speech melts into song; the wonderful chorus voices in Wild Man are startling. The lyrical themes are astonishingly varied, as usual. Although conceptually linked, they range from a night of passion with a snowman to yeti persecution.

The first track, Snowflake, may be straighter, but the part of a falling snowflake is played by Kate’s thirteen-year-old son Bertie, whose performance is half-spoken, half-sung. His crystal treble voice perfectly evokes the season and, together with Kate’s warm singing and gentle piano, brings winter light to a yearning, tingling mother-and-son track. It is beautiful. Strings unobtrusively fill out the sound, adding an occasional decorative flurry.

Indeed throughout the album, the orchestration never intrudes on the intimacy. Among Angels, the final track, is oblique and touching in the same way as Aerial’s A Coral Room. Strings enter midway, but the focus is always on Kate and the piano. In Misty, the core sound is piano, bass and drums, coolly recalling a classic Blue Note rhythm section.

Misty is over thirteen minutes long. Kate Bush makes a snowman, with whom she then spends the night (“I kiss his ice cream lips”). In the morning he has gone, melted away. The music sustains the song, shifting to reflect the long narrative and featuring tremulous guitar and a noticeable huskiness in Kate’s voice. Lake Tahoe is similarly lengthy, but remains more static musically and doesn’t carry us in the same way, despite the inventive, ghostly words.

Robber's veil, creaky-creaky

The duet with Elton John, Snowed in at Wheeler Street, contains the strongest emotional breakout, telling a tale of lovers forever divided. The cathartic ending is forced perhaps, but till then it builds well on a menacing pulse and the star cameo from Kate’s own hero is interesting. Then, on the title track, Stephen Fry proposes a list of nonsense synonyms for snow, while Kate counts them off and in the chorus cheers him on (“Just 22 to go, let me hear your 50 words for snow!”). How strange and amazing. I was worried that Fry would break the spell with his familiar QI–Twinings purr, but he intones the words solemnly with just a hint of humour. Currently, my favourites are swans-a-melting, deamondi-pavlova and icyskidski.

In 50 Words for Snow, Kate Bush has produced hushed music which gleams in an icy hinterland. Like snow, it invites and unnerves, giving its gift quietly. I am enthralled by a musical vision which has yet to waver or disappoint. How lucky we are.

8.5

For more Kate Bush, read my review of The Red Shoes here... and The Kick Inside here!

The Awakening/Tabloid

Off to the Filmhouse again and, filled with nachos and gin, I had a blast with two entertaining new films.

The Awakening

This is a mystery haunted house film, happily old-fashioned. Rebecca Hall is one of my favourite actresses around and she is wonderful in her lead role as Florence Cathcart, a sceptic of the supernatural. It is 1921 and she is an educated woman (trouser-wearing and so on), exposing fraudsters and solving ghostly goings-on. She is summoned by Robert Mallory (Dominic West) to a boarding school, where a ghost has been seen and a boy has died.

Spooky stuff.

Several reviews of The Awakening have highlighted its kinship with films such as The Devil’s Backbone and The Innocents. The latter is one of my favourite films, and some of the key moments here were those which recalled it most strongly. For instance, there are night-time wanderings in the corridors, with just a candle (electric this time) and spooky sound design to keep the heroine company. The setting is also similar, with the lake of the country house playing a key role. And, most interestingly, we witness an inexorable bond with a young boy, given strange, fleeting fire with a kiss.

This relationship between Florence and the young boy, connecting through shared loneliness, is interesting. Mallory I found less exciting; his exchanges with Florence about survivors’ guilt after World War I are a little too explicative, although Dominic West does not disappoint. The ending also does not satisfy entirely, the tension having been built up nicely with plenty of beautiful shots. The best of these include a stunned Florence standing in a street by some incongruous empty chairs, and a sequence on the jetty of the lake. The scares are generally effective too. In all, The Awakening can promise a great time in the dark.

7.5

Tabloid

This is the first Errol Morris documentary I have seen. The Thin Blue Line and The Fog of War have so far evaded me, despite my interest. Tabloid tells the story of Joyce McKinney who, to our delight, has much of the running time to herself. She is a former beauty queen from North Carolina, who became mired in tabloid scandal in the UK in 1977 when she was accused of abducting her former lover (a Mormon missionary), taking him to Devon, chaining him to a bed and raping him.

McKinney is a perfect documentary subject. The story (along with several bizarre diversions) is wild, and she is a hoot. Impassioned and hilarious, she keenly tells her side of the story with gusto. Whether she tells it truthfully or not, we cannot know, and although she is clearly obsessive, it is difficult to tell whether she is benign or dangerous. Her story treads the various fine lines between the terrifying, the sad and the completely ridiculous. An entirely unexpected epilogue involving her dog had me in stitches; the phrase “You couldn’t make this shit up” was invented for it.

A few others add their perspective. Most important are two tabloid reporters of the time, from The Express and The Mirror; it is a shame there are not more. The impact of the media on McKinney’s life has clearly been profound, despicably treated as she was, as fair game for a sensational story. The documentary should have more on this, examining and questioning the methods of the tabloid press (something which could not be more topical, after all). But in the end, it doesn’t matter too much. Joyce herself is so entertaining and the story itself makes a tremendous impact. Barking mad, one might say.

8

The Red Shoes

The Kate Bush bonanza starts here

There are only four days to go before the release of Kate Bush's new album, 50 Words for Snow. The excitement is tangible. I completely devoured Director’s Cut earlier this year. It features reworkings of songs from The Sensual World and The Red Shoes, in generally warmer, more intimate settings. I love The Sensual World and the new versions fascinated me, but I barely knew the seven selections from The Red Shoes. A shameful secret of mine had been cruelly exposed: I did not own all her albums. No Red Shoes, and no Kick Inside. In the spirit of generating anticipation, I recently rectified this.

The Red Shoes (1993)

This album does not have a particularly strong reputation. There are fewer classic tracks than expected and the digital production is famously of its time. Maybe this is why I had been hesitant, instead choosing yet again to whip out The Dreaming and hee-haw along. In fact, much of it is great, even if things fall apart towards the end. My approach was unusual. I had only a passing knowledge of the singles (Rubberband Girl, Eat the Music), but several album tracks I seemed to know intimately after their appearance on Director’s Cut.

A rubber band hold me trousers up.

Of these, most are not too different here. And So Is Love is still beautiful and The Red Shoes still skitters about. There are sometimes extra details I enjoy, sometimes bits I miss: I pine for the mad-Kate ferocity at the end of Lily. A little disappointing is Moments of Pleasure (heresy!). I fell in love with the mellower version on Director’s Cut and I am glad I heard that version first. Here, the pace is faster and lain over the top of Kate and her piano is a showy Michael Kamen string arrangement. It is needless and too busy, distracting from the beautiful words.

I am now crazy over Rubberband Girl. A dotty lyric is matched with classic Kate Bush production (in a 1990s guise). Layers are built, with chorused voices and crooked synths. Vocals are sped up and Kate makes noises as if indeed she were a rubber band (“Here I go...!”). Whilst it doesn’t hit the emotional highs of some of her exquisite earlier singles, it is still great fun. The sound is light and brittle, but it makes me dance. Eat the Music is less engaging, seeming more cluttered and less immediate, although the lyrics are rather glorious. I wonder what fruit they might have borne if used differently, in one of her sultry, passionate pieces (think of Running Up That Hill or The Sensual World).

The weakness of The Red Shoes lies in the final few tracks. Big Stripey Lie is a pleasing racket, but Constellation of the Heart misfires (despite Bush’s usually dependable shouting crowd). Why Should I Love You? is a collaboration with Prince (Prince!). The result sounds like a throwaway pure-pop track from his early NPG era, and I regret the missed opportunity. If only they had come together five, ten years earlier. Finally, You’re the One does a little better and features the Trio Bulgarka, who had previously illuminated The Sensual World. They are criminally underused on this album.

Overall, The Red Shoes is a pleasant surprise. It contains some vintage Kate Bush and reaches joyous peaks. My love for her is long-standing and remains undimmed. Four days to go...

7.5

PS My review of The Kick Inside will follow very soon. Ta x

Wild Beasts

Hooting and howling

"Good Northern voice," my Northern companion noted, as Hayden Thorpe explained how the romanticism of Edinburgh blew his mind. Voices are key to the Wild Beasts sound. The two frontmen are wondrous singers; Thorpe's falsetto and Tom Fleming's baritone are perfectly matched and bring each song to life. At the Liquid Room last night, they were both on fine form.


Mind-blowing romanticism

Clean, echoing guitar sounds and snapping drums add a from-across-the-chasm atmosphere. It has real impact live and there is no need for deviation or trickery here. The performances are straight, faithful to the recorded originals, and almost always spot on. This Is Our Lot, His Grinning Skull and Reach a Bit Further were all centrepieces and captured the band at their best: hitting an irresistible groove and then taking flight with vocals laced with surprise.

Earlier, Bed of Nails and We Still Got the Taste Dancin' on Our Tongues made a sizeable one-two opening punch. The latter, referencing The Good, the Bad and the Ugly, is a personal favourite and was taken at a spirited gallop. The euphoric mood increased with The Devil's Crayon, as the room was filled with dancing energy. This was a little punctured by The Fun Powder Plot, which was taken at a slower pace than expected and came across a little sluggish. No matter, as the best was to come.

"We fookin' love you guys!" yelled a correct man. He was rewarded, alongside the rest of us, with a chiming Hooting & Howling. As an encore, Lion's Share and an excitable All the King's Men got the crowd singing along. Both Thorpe and Fleming were enjoying themselves, immersed. One only feels they need shirts which are rather less shit, especially next to supercool guitarist Ben Little. End Come Too Soon calmed us down. A wash of sound slowly consumed the song and the band hid from view, re-emerging for the finale. Wonderful stuff.

We Need to Talk About Kevin

Perhaps not one to watch with Mother

Having awaited this film since first seeing its unnerving trailer, I sped to the Filmhouse earlier this week. We Need to Talk About Kevin marks the return of director Lynne Ramsay after nine years away (I am now encouraged to seek her other films). Tilda Swinton plays Eva, a woman whose son Kevin has committed a high school massacre. It is an intense and sometimes harrowing film, but much of it I greatly enjoyed.

Eva is the lead character, but the pervasive presence is Kevin. Through flashback, the film moves through his early life and we are offered clues as to why the later horror transpired. But these clues, or perhaps Eva’s suppositions, are hinted at rather than confronted; the focus is on Eva’s maternal disconnect. From the beginning, she cannot bond with Kevin, who seems to have a personal dislike of his mother. He is malicious and openly hateful.

In fact, whilst Ezra Miller is disturbingly persuasive as the teenaged Kevin (the final moments are chilling), I found the scenes involving his younger self a little forced. His vindictiveness, even as a toddler, is too black-and-white. It can be darkly comical – he is almost demonic when (not) playing ball – but it slightly undermines the naturalism of the film. What I enjoyed more were Ramsay’s stylistic choices. And Tilda Swinton, obviously.

She once touched my hand.

Visually, the film is impeccable and contains many potent shots. At the start, we see a writhing throng, a mass of bodies smothered in red. They fill the screen. We are at a tomato squashing festival and Eva is crowd-surfing, smiling blissfully. This is her past, but although this scene depicts revelry and joy, the vibrant colour presages what will come.

In fact, bright red invades the entire film. In the film’s present, Eva’s home and car have been vandalized with red paint. She attempts to scrape and wash it away, becoming flecked and marked herself. The colour bleeds out of practically every shot, puncturing the otherwise muted, tender palette. Strawberry jam, a bedside clock, and so on. It is a bold decision, possibly heavy-handed, but it works to unify the scattered pieces of the narrative. It also draws a river of dread through the story as it builds to the horrific climax.

And tomato soup.

Also effective is the use of the soundtrack. Disorientating and fractured, it taunts with over-amplified details and memories. This is especially true of the opening scenes, in which past and present overlap and we are immersed in Eva’s distress. We see one memory, but hear another; songs continue beyond their original context; and Jonny Greenwood’s subtle score adds humming dissonance.

The film is well constructed then, but Tilda Swinton’s performance provides the greatest power. Eva speaks little, but the closed posture and hollow eyes convey a real and broken character. Swinton expertly judges Eva’s varying states of mind between time periods. Frustration turns to desolation, and forced smiles become blank grief. Kevin is a monster, but it is Eva who is most unsettling. She is uncomfortably real.

8

Lykke Li

Drums and mist in Glasgow, from Sweden

Lykke Li performed at the O₂ ABC at the weekend. I went along, eager to see the Swedish chanteuse move her hips. I have lately much enjoyed her second album, Wounded Rhymes, which is clattering and tender.

The show was originally scheduled for April, but she injured her back in Marks and Spencer beforehand (dropping raspberries everywhere) and it was postponed. So anticipation was high and I had a great evening. Her set was disappointingly short, lasting just over an hour, but the music was at times tremendous.

Lykke Li proves her back is now fine.

Support beforehand was provided by First Aid Kit, two Swedish sisters backed by a long-haired dude with a cool jumper and a beard. Their powerful (loud) singing drives folky, campfire music that is reasonably good but in all rather too earnest. The cumulative impression I had was that their matching dresses were probably homemade.

When Lykke Li arrived, the onstage presence changed completely. Wearing black and continuously shrouded by dry ice, Lykke and her band were predominantly backlit by stark white lights. They were Nordic spectres, emerging from the mist to thundering music at the start; Lykke snaked her way to the front, smashing a cymbal with her hand along the way. As she sang opener Love Out of Lust, her fragile voice floated amid the band’s large, throbbing sound. It was bewitching.

The sound was big indeed, frequently percussive and pounding. Two drummers gave terrific force to the climactic moments, which were many (I'm Good, I'm Gone came second, but would have made a cracking finale), and their beats dominated the evening’s music. Lykke herself often got in on the action with her own sticks. She moves well too, swaying in a gossamer dress and punching her arms outwards. I Follow Rivers got us dancing with her, and it was fun.

My phone's approximation of the stage that night.

The mood was calmed by the stripped-down I Know Places. Her voice is not particularly strong, but with the band’s muscle returning for power ballad Sadness Is a Blessing (one of my favourites from the album), she gave a soulful performance. The delivery was straight, and it was a great moment.

However, after this slower section of the show, the momentum did not pick up again as it should have with the next song, Little Bit. Lykke encouraged us to sing along, but she was vague, dropping out unexpectedly of what is already a light track. She began to get impatient with us and looked uncomfortable. I worried.

Fears were banished by the final few songs. The stage was bathed in red light, the crowd got louder, and Lykke put on a cape. Rave-like beats took us into a rocking Rich Kids Blues. Then, Youth Knows No Pain provided the highlight of the night. The drums were back and it was loud and exciting. And it came with a miraculous twist: suddenly, the backing switched to Kanye West’s Power. Its repeated chant demanded participation, whilst Lykke continued to sing Youth Knows No Pain above. It was clever, unexpected and worked incredibly well.

With final song Get Some, Lykke’s dancing hit a peak. She may have earlier worried about the crowd, but we were sent out into the street elated, still hearing the drums and seeing her sway.