Song, by Toad

Spring makes a fucking colossal difference, doesn’t it.  People have been tripping around Edinburgh with a spring in their step for the last week, when the sun has come out and the air, whilst it may still be a little chilly, is notably warmer.  It’s gentler, I suppose, is the main difference.  There’s something of a release about Spring, as if all the uncomfortable restraint of Winter no longer has to be acknowledged.  Does anyone remember that episode of Northern Exposure when the ice melted?  Everyone went nuts, and the relieved exhalation we all express on the coming of the sunshine does remind me in many ways of a tame version of the exact same mania depicted in that episode of, erm, a serialised drama from the, er, mid ah nineties…  anyone still reading?  Never mind.

In any case, this is a purposeless but musically excellent podcast which is something of a lazy one, if I’m honest.  Frankly though, I think I deserve it after the effort put into the Pictish Session, so fuck you if you have an issue with that.  Tee hee.  There’s a lot of new release stuff on here, a couple of bands reviewed recently on the site, and a couple who are going to be reviewed later this week.  Next week I’ll think of a theme. Promise.

Toadcast #63 – Sprrring is Here!

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01. The Soft Pack – Right & Wrong (01.33)
02. Maxwell Panther – A Shade Away (08.24)
03. Phil & the Osophers – They Threw a Shoe at You (11.16)
04. The Felice Brothers – The Big Surprise (15.34)
05. The Empty Set – Alice & Bob (Forlorn Photo Love) (24.01)
06. The Van Allen Belt – The Revolution Will be Merchandised (27.24)
07. Meursault (no, not that Meursault) – Blindfolds (33.31)
08. Outlaw Con Bandana – Rainy Season (37.16)
09. Dame Satan – Ghost Dance (39.25)
10. Peter Doherty – 1939 Returning (49.30)

When was the last time Pete Doherty was stumbling across the front page of the tabloids, jacked up to the tits on smack/horse tranquilizers/coco pops/whatever he gets his kicks from these days?  I ask, not because I particularly care, but because I’ve just realised that I don’t really remember seeing that much of him recently.  Kerry Katona and Amy Winehouse seem to be the self-destruction poster children du jour, and of course Jade Goody has kept everyone more than occupied enough for the last little while.  So I’ve not seen that much of Pete, I think, although I could be wrong.

The only reason I bring that up is because this album just does not have the disjointed chaos about it that you might expect from the kind of lifestyle for which he has recently been most famous.  It’s actually kind of mellow, relaxed and, crucially, really rather warm.  It’s a sad, regretful album in many ways, but there’s none of the wild-eyed undercurrent which has given his previous work both its best and its worst moments.  He sounds, and you may wish to re-read this sentence carefully just to be sure you got it right, but he sounds really rather together.  I’ve no idea if he is, but to listen to this album that is how he sounds.

I’m not sure where the warmth comes from; it could be the unhurried, comfortable vocal delivery.  It could equally be the more considered musical construction, which seems confident enough to trip from bare acoustic guitar laments to richer, lusher textures which bring some songs to the verge of the club croon.  Maybe the cathartic nature of the lyrical content has given him the confidence to tackle the music with a little more abandon.  Maybe it’s the steadying  presence of Blur’s Graham Coxon on guitar.  Maybe he genuinely is in a good place right now, in a personal sense, and this is just the kind of music he is capable of making.

Either way, this album sort of makes me sad.  It’s really good – not exceptional, but really good nevertheless.  I don’t know if I’m sad for the past, for what he’s had to do to himself to get here, or whether I’m sad for the future which could still so easily be his if this little island of calm proves to be temporary, because when he’s this together he’s clearly still got a lot to offer and it would be a shame if he were to rob himself of the chance to do so.  I, for one, hope he does not.

Peter Doherty – Last of the English Roses

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Peter Doherty – A Little Death Around the Eyes

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