Yours Truly, Cellophane Nose, the debut full-length from perfectly vivacious Geordie lass Beth Jeans Houghton (& The Hooves of Destiny)
has been so impatiently awaited that to at long last be able to
ferociously tear record from shrink-wrapped viscose must, for Houghton,
be comparable to a childhood Christmas in which some inconceivably
gargantuan Lego vessel is unfurled from gaudy wrapping paper. When
our paths crossed and voices conversed back in September Beth Jeans
was, visibly, deeply affected by the arrival of a clutch of Liliputt
seven inches thus to clasp an LP for the very first time must have, I
may presuppose, truly enlightened an already wonderfully enlivening
character.
Realistically, Yours Truly, Cellophane Nose is hardly an effort to validate the long in long-player, its ten tracks scarcely clocking in at half an hour. However if it may dispel one abbreviation, it convincingly typifies one particular well-worn-to-the-point-of-threadbare phrase. For while it's unquestionably short (and, subjectively, saddeningly so), it's also unerringly sweet. Bugle-buffeted opener Sweet Tooth Bird is as buoyant as the most blustery whistle of wind, the symphonic sound of The Polyphonic Spree's horn section polished and spruced up to contribute exuberant fanfare to the Nyman-like orchestral whirring of the track, while Atlas proves ebulliently Wild Bestial with afrobeat guitars, hooting, howling, and the like offset by aboriginal chanting set several fathoms below paradoxically joyous lyrics of the detrimental nature of "red wine and whisky". Irrespective of the purported damage of said intoxicants, they've evidently had no impact on Houghton's vocal ability as she performs a variety of viva voce acrobatics. She coos; cackles; comforts as lines roly-poly helplessly on into those which follow as on the lightly jovial Humble Digs, during which soldierly snares and tumbledown banjos perpetuate a jaunty, chantey-ish effect.
Night Swimmer (mercifully akin to R.E.M. dirge in name only) sees Houghton & her Hooves veer off in a somewhat kitsch baroque pop direction beneath which swims incongruous arpeggiation. She here demonstrates minimal progression, and consequently merely treads waters in which she's perhaps ill at ease. The eerie and ethereal, bemusingly entitled The Barely Skinny Bone Tree is significantly more successful meanwhile, plucked strings permeating swelling harmonies and shimmering plinks while the crystalline acoustica of Liliputt gleams with the brightness of the pearliest grin. Strangest still is perhaps Veins, Houghton's voice at its breathiest and indeed bestest, warbling atop the sort of impossibly pure gospel vox usually employed to back up many a balladeer at the turn of the millennium. Sporadically the criticism frequently levelled at her as a songwriter, that of concocting manifestations of the knowingly quirky is distressingly evidenced as on the cabaret-tinged Franklin Benedict, the imagery of a solar eclipse spent crowded around a vegetarian barbecue tossed and turned with an absurd hash of a guitar solo and uninspiring strings. It's the multi-faceted Dodecahedron however that continues to enchant and above all truly inspire thus while Houghton may here purport to be a young lady of many faces, several appear to be unequivocally beautiful.
Realistically, Yours Truly, Cellophane Nose is hardly an effort to validate the long in long-player, its ten tracks scarcely clocking in at half an hour. However if it may dispel one abbreviation, it convincingly typifies one particular well-worn-to-the-point-of-threadbare phrase. For while it's unquestionably short (and, subjectively, saddeningly so), it's also unerringly sweet. Bugle-buffeted opener Sweet Tooth Bird is as buoyant as the most blustery whistle of wind, the symphonic sound of The Polyphonic Spree's horn section polished and spruced up to contribute exuberant fanfare to the Nyman-like orchestral whirring of the track, while Atlas proves ebulliently Wild Bestial with afrobeat guitars, hooting, howling, and the like offset by aboriginal chanting set several fathoms below paradoxically joyous lyrics of the detrimental nature of "red wine and whisky". Irrespective of the purported damage of said intoxicants, they've evidently had no impact on Houghton's vocal ability as she performs a variety of viva voce acrobatics. She coos; cackles; comforts as lines roly-poly helplessly on into those which follow as on the lightly jovial Humble Digs, during which soldierly snares and tumbledown banjos perpetuate a jaunty, chantey-ish effect.
Night Swimmer (mercifully akin to R.E.M. dirge in name only) sees Houghton & her Hooves veer off in a somewhat kitsch baroque pop direction beneath which swims incongruous arpeggiation. She here demonstrates minimal progression, and consequently merely treads waters in which she's perhaps ill at ease. The eerie and ethereal, bemusingly entitled The Barely Skinny Bone Tree is significantly more successful meanwhile, plucked strings permeating swelling harmonies and shimmering plinks while the crystalline acoustica of Liliputt gleams with the brightness of the pearliest grin. Strangest still is perhaps Veins, Houghton's voice at its breathiest and indeed bestest, warbling atop the sort of impossibly pure gospel vox usually employed to back up many a balladeer at the turn of the millennium. Sporadically the criticism frequently levelled at her as a songwriter, that of concocting manifestations of the knowingly quirky is distressingly evidenced as on the cabaret-tinged Franklin Benedict, the imagery of a solar eclipse spent crowded around a vegetarian barbecue tossed and turned with an absurd hash of a guitar solo and uninspiring strings. It's the multi-faceted Dodecahedron however that continues to enchant and above all truly inspire thus while Houghton may here purport to be a young lady of many faces, several appear to be unequivocally beautiful.
______________________________________________________________________
Author: Unknown
Source: Dots & Dashes
Date: February, 2012
Original article: HERE
Brak komentarzy:
Prześlij komentarz