Song, by Toad

I realised, when I saw that they were playing in Edinburgh, that I have been relatively quiet on the subject of all things Paris Motel for the last little while. I guess this kind of happens in a field where news, as much as anything, seems to be paramount. When I do take time out to reflect it almost always seem to be to swear about something, so reflecting on music I loved recently but haven’t taken the time to cosy up to for a bit always seems to be somewhat down the agenda.

Amy May is actually a professional musician. Not in the rock star sense, unsurprisingly, rather in the session, arrangement and live performance sense. As an example, having played viola with The Enemy (Toad begins to grind teeth) she has nothing but praise for them. To paraphrase, they really mean what they’re singing, they’re really nice, down to earth lads and they think about and engage with the world thoughtfully and sincerely. Hating their music like I do, it’s mildly confusing to hear them spoken of so warmly – can’t the world just be full of one-dimensional stereotypes, dammit!

This kind of career diversity kind of explains her attitude to her own band. It’s like a little oasis of free expression in a world full of crust-earning artistic compromises and consequently she refuses to be budged on anything – this is the one chance to absolutely and unflinchingly do the kind of music that she wants. “I sometimes wish I could write a pop song, sometimes people tell me I should, but it’s just not what comes out”.

Paris Motel’s mini-orchestra produce a wonderfully rich, layered sound on record, but due to the financial constrictions of travelling with a dozen folk, this evening is played with just Amy, Joe the drummer on autoharp and a guitarist they’ve barely played with before who happened to get in touch because he is a fan. They say this is pretty much normal – they basically have to generate a new arrangement of the songs for each tour, depending on who of their number is actually available at the time.

This evening, they’re struggling. The guitarist doesn’t know the songs that well, and he and Amy seem to approach these things differently. She’s on the verge of panic and sure it’ll be a disaster and he’s shrugging his shoulders a little – there’s not much you can do but go for it and hope for the best. It’s funny to see actually, because I can kind of sympathise with both parties, and as a fan I honestly don’t care – I have no doubt that the songs will carry the evening.

And they do, of course. Joe made the very wise decision to ditch the rather dominant bongos and play his percussion on the merchandise suitcase instead, which sounded a million times better. And Amy’s voice, when she remembers the words, is simply superb. The only issue really is that the guitar does little but keep the rhythm, and the percussion already does that. Because of the classical background of the band, Paris Motel songs are very textured things, and with a guitar doing no more than keep rhythm I find myself questioning the need to have it at all, but given he only learned the songs that afternoon it’s impossible to blame the guitarist for this.

Ultimately, what we’re here for is Amy’s old-fashioned, crystal clear voice, and the defeated sadness of her delivery. They have yet to entirely capture the peaks and troughs of the live performance in their studio stuff, but at least one aspect of that might be impossible: Amy May’s face. When she sings, her eyes look so woefully, sincerely, achingly sad that you’re drawn into the slightly magical , watery tragedy of the songs as if the heartache they sing of was genuinely your own. They’re eminently personal as well, apparently. For all the imagery in the songs is all very reminiscent of old fairy tales and nursery rhymes – a very English equivalent to the Brothers Grimm, perhaps – the actual stories are intensely personal.

As Amy herself puts it “It may be all fairy tales, but I know each and every one of those characters and everything that happens to them is something really important from my own life.” It is sincere, heartfelt music and it shows. If you ever get the chance to go and see them, do it.

Paris Motel – 071
Paris Motel – Catherine By the Sea

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I suppose it’s pretty obvious to point out that gypsy music, or Eastern European folk at the very least, is to the noughties what Irish folk was to the eighties. That much, I suppose, is fairly clear but what I can’t quite imagine is gypsy stuff falling quite as out of fashion with my own ears as Irish folk music has. I know that this is the very nature of fashion – it’s such an instinctive thing, and so inconceivable at the time how things can drift so comprehensively in and out of favour – but it still seems odd to think of.

I say this because I adored the sound of Irish folky stuff back in 1990 at least as much as I am currently loving all the groups dabbling in the music of Eastern Europe at the moment. But listening to Irish folk-rock now it just sounds so incredibly dated, and I assume the same must happen here eventually.

Pointless waffling aside, of course, I have to point out that this is an incredibly good album. It’s less tinny than some of the early Beirut stuff, less frenetic than A Hawk & a Hacksaw and less pop than a lot of other imitators. They aren’t a straight up folk band by any means, of course, as their excursion into soundtracks with Little Miss Sunshine and their origins as a Burlesque band emphasise.

I don’t know quite to describe what they have that sets them apart from a standard carnival folk band, but there’s something deeper and weightier in the sound. Perhaps it’s something more grandiose or more cinematic, although it’s quite possible I’m only saying this because I know they’ve done film work. There also seem to be hints of Mariachi in there as well, although given my musical ignorance I don’t know if this is because there actually is some Mariachi in the music or if it’s just because they remind me of Calexico.

Anyhow, I reckon you’ve pretty much got the point by now. I’ve struggled slightly to get into their stuff in the past, but this appears to be the album that’s cracked it.

DeVotchKa – Along the Way
DeVotchKa – Undone

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