A litte tête-à-tête

There’s something tearing away at the back of my mind, I can hear the whispers. You’re a failure, they say. You’re wasting life. Tug my hair as I might, twist and turn at night, I can’t let go of the thought, What if they’re right? Minutes ticking, time for rest diminishing. I flee the bed chambers to enter the examination room; a little man to man, a little tête-à-tête. Let’s examine the face: the hollow circles around the eyes, the gray blue hue that has captured the imagination of many a fair admirer, but now not so bright, now a little cold, stars in the eyes have died. There the lips that can break into that smile, the smile that can melt hearts and change minds. Better than any theatre prop or beautician’s talent, when that smile breaks out the audience is drawn into the fiction of happy endings or beginnings or whatever else it is that they imagine. For the words never really leave the mouth, but somehow that smile seems to leave no one in doubt. That is the man, the babble rises, who is content beyond his heart’s desire, yet never proud, always good natured. But it was little more than white lies to clothe himself from prying eyes. Note the tilt of the head, the cheeks slightly sallow, the teeth once so white now a little yellow due to increase in caffeine that has become borderline addiction, but to withdraw is to fall foul of symptoms that knock the inner forehead without invitation. The hair is still fine, healthy and full despite all the tugging and sharp painful pulls that are administered to try awakening the senses from defeatist realist adherence. Signs of acne still appear from day to day, yet they promised this would stop back around 2008 when teenhood doors closed and the twenties arrived in a flurry of more responsibilities and a stronger dose of life. That’s not to say that life hasn’t been grand, there are traces in this face of a rare beautiful love, the touch of gentle woman’s hand that has cared for this face and given more to it than all of those petty thwarted plans. But he feels he has let her down once too many, no longer quite sure he deserves to be around. You can read all this in the forehead’s lines and that cheerless smile he only reveals during these nocturnal examination times. So what is there left to say of this well-familiar face that it has not already heard a thousand times before? Not much really, you might as well give up trying to soothe and calm that mind. Think of it as the aspiring artist within to self-torment inclined. So scrub that face hard and scrub it clean, rest that head on the pillow that nurtured all those adolescent dreams, a few deep breaths (and a couple of sighs), then no more whispers, not at least until the following night.

Just a thought

You say I have no faith
But then you have no reason
So I guess, in a way
We are both rather even

The day I got referred to in the letters section of the paper ...

http://www.timesofmalta.com/articles/view/20110806/letters/Room-where-to-stand-and-cheer-in-gigs.378958

Tardy Town {a glimpse}

The mysterious circumstances pertaining to the town christened Tardy, and all that followed.

At precisely 3 o’clock in the dead of a chilly Thursday night in December, the St. Sanctus church bell sounded across the little town of Tardy. Precisely seven people in the town were still awake that night and thus were the few who heard the bell’s clangourous hollow din reverberating from its mount in the Church tower.

Raymond Rechid was one of the seven not yet claimed by the realm of sleep, and truth be told Raymond had no choice but to hear the bell’s clamour, as he was Tardy town’s staunch bell-ringer.

While the mass of Tardy town’s inhabitants were tucked soundly in bed, Raymond would nightly make his way to the Church - a short two streets walk from his unintended bachelor abode - turn the bulky rusting key in the old wooden Church tower door, and there he would carry-out his appointed duty of the ringing of the bell. As St. Sanctus’ sole subservient, Raymond was also appointed to be dreary daily altar server, lonesome aisle sweeper, makeshift pallbearer and unavoidable-if-undesired gravedigger.

In comparison to these humdrum chores, he simply relished ringing the town bell; the thud of the clapper against the bell’s inner rim, the pouring of sound all around him filling the tower to its brim, the quivering sensation eddying down the bell’s rope through his hands.

He knew the bell so intimately that with just the slightest flick of the wrist he could direct the clapper to the bell’s sweetest spots, allowing for differing degrees in the sound’s tonality and texture to resonate and reverberate across the town. For those two or three minutes each night Raymond Rechid ceased to be a sad thirty-six year old bachelor whose only purpose in life was to perform St. Sanctus church’s dirty work. He transformed into a conjurer of sound; a straight-backed and not so socially shunned kindred spirit of Quasimodo.

Fr. Dione, the parish priest, grimaced at the tolling of the bell. Perched like an old balding vulture at the end of his bed, Fr. Dione’s reason for being awake at such an ungodly hour was not out of any pious religious devotion. Quite simply it was Fr. Dione who paid Raymond Rechid’s weekly wages out of the St. Sanctus’ daily monetary gatherings. And quite simply, if Raymond was to miss any one of his never-ending appointed church duties, Fr. Dione would, with a feeling of relief befitting any miserly old man, refuse to pay Raymond his entitled sum; a sum that even an ordinary Tardy town child would scoff at.

Somewhat grudgingly, Fr. Dione picked up his thumb-sized graphite pencil from his bedside table and crossed the Thursday night box off his scrutinisingly extensive Rechid’s weekly performance checklist. Pulling back the stiff as cardboard bed sheets, he crawled underneath for some well needed shuteye.

Zucchero ~ MFCC, Ta' Qali, 30/07/2011

{Published in The Times of Malta, 03/08/2011}

Zucchero... with no spice

Surrounded by a metallic warehouse, a skeletal globe-like construction, and a stadium floodlight looming imposingly above, the MFCC open air grounds comes across more like a top secret military hangar than a venue fit for a music concert. But as the bustling crowd shuffled down the aisles into their allocated seats, the lit-up Chocabeck tour stage-set offered a tad more spectacle: tower bells and violet balloons hanging like clusters of grapes against a backdrop of archways overseeing golden barley fields.

With the release of latest album Chocabeck, Zucchero has been met with a renewal of credibility in the motherland. The supporting tour sees the Italian rock and blues artist return to Malta with his travelling caravan of 11 musicians for his third concert here.

It takes a particularly Italian mix of coolness and braggadocio for a singer to walk out on stage in front of an amassed crowd and plonk himself casually on a throne nonetheless, without showing any sign of shamefacedness. But sit himself on a throne Zucchero did, almost humbly if that’s even possible, and with two guitar wielding minstrels on either side of him the concert began in laid-back acoustic mode. New songs Il Suono della Domenica and Soldati nella mia Città sounded intricately lush and heartfelt.

“Malta, stand up!” yelled the Sugar man over the euphoric string motif and pounding bass drum intro of recent hit single Vedo Nero; the first upbeat number of the night. This directive specifically addressed to the audience majority in the seated sections, who up until that point had been diligently giving their feet a rest, got most standing but by no means all. God forbid someone should see them actually enjoying themselves. The shame!

As the evening progressed, the atmosphere remained ostensibly flat. Just when Zu and band built a bit of momentum it was smothered almost immediately with another string of slowies. The frequent sitting and standing made it hard for even the more enthusiastic of the crowd to get a feel-good vibe going.

Pointless inclusions of pre-recorded backing vocals and beefed up percussion to help replicate the records live, only served to kill any hint of thrilling spontaneity. And quite why the keyboardist took on horn sounding solos when there was a three-piece horn section on stage is anyone’s guess. Only during Con le Mani was the saxophonist finally given room to let loose; the performance sounding all the better for it.

Diavolo in Me, with its mock-Gospel opening and blues-rock groove, was a brief flash of good ol’ fashioned fun. Zucchero, now sporting a Machiavellian impish mask, judiciously worked the crowd, hitting those vocal Joe Cocker-esque heights with aplomb.

But if there is a lesson to be learnt from Zucchero’s concert, it is that if you want a Maltese audience to go absolutely mental, simply play them a bit of opera. A few seconds into encore Miserere, which featured the voice and image of late great Italian tenor Pavarotti via the big screen projection, and people were stumbling to their feet faster than it would have taken the big man to wolf down a dish of tortellini.

The crowd just about all stayed put and danced the funky gallo in the final Per Colpa di Chi, which saw the night off in good enough spirits. Staunch defenders of Italian music may claim it was the best thing since Italian TV discovered the Wonderbra, but for the rest it was no more than an OK night out.

Santana ~ MFCC, Ta' Qali, 24/07/2011

{Published in The Times of Malta, 27/07/2011}

A Supernatural Evening with Santana

After almost twenty years of near obscurity, the odds of ageing guitarist Carlos Santana rocketing straight back to global superstardom with an album that won him 9 Grammys, sold in excess of 25 million copies, and made him an icon for the MTV generation were, it’s fair to say, slimmer than Elvis rising from his grave to go on tour with John Lennon.

But Supernatural proved to be quite the winning ticket, and now a decade later the Woodstock veteran is still going strong. Currently touring in support of recent album release Guitar Heaven, Santana finished the European leg of the tour with a special stop at the MFCC arena in Ta’ Qali.

A burst of congas, timbales, and probably every other tribal sounding piece of percussion as yet discovered by Western man, and Carlos Santana shuffled on stage to the groove infused Spark of the Divine looking like, but not necessarily, a packet of Marlboro Golds. Dressed in immaculate white from head to toe, and wrapped in a soft-gold waistcoat, the 64-year-old still appears rejuvenated by his late-life reclaim to fame.

With his signature PRS guitar slung waist high, the Mexican’s trademark virtuoso guitar licks were somewhat drowned out by the indistinguishable cacophony of instruments rendered by the arena’s troublesome acoustics. The opening minutes sounded so “out there” due to the cracking percussions and echo drenched brass frenetically ricocheting all around the semi-cylindrical arena, it made Miles Davis’ hugely experimental Bitches Brew album sound like trad jazz in comparison. There were certainly a few quizzical looking faces among the audience.

Once the sound crew finally ironed out all technical gremlins the show really began to sparkle and take a life of its own: and they couldn’t have timed it better with Santana’s triple whammy of fan favourites Black Magic Woman, Oye Como Va and Maria Maria raising the room temperature from simmering to sizzling.

The blend of sultry Latino rock, muggy enclosed air and a few beers, proved to be a little too much for a worrying number of middle aged men, who were, one can only suppose, dancing with hopes of regaining that Woodstock experience that they missed out on all those years ago. It fell to the attendant ladies to adequately pick up the slack.

Santana’s musical output since the blockbuster Supernatural has been arguably dubious. With a never-ending host of big name collaborations and play-it-safe material, these releases inadvertently made Carlos Santana appear to be a mere cameo star on his own albums; delivering the occasional bankable salacious lick just to spice things up. Thankfully, it is Carlos who takes centre-stage in the live shows. Throughout the night, he worked his voodoo on the trance induced crowd with his signature wailing guitar solos, sounding truly inspired and effervescent.

Slicker than a snake in a barrel of butter, the ten-strong Santana band were also given ample time to showcase their individual skills in a selfless mark of entrustment and admiration from their moustachioed ringleader; entertaining, if slightly tiresome after the zillionth time.

Clearly Santana’s last three albums have been little more than marketable cash cows to sustain interest in the band’s upcoming live tours. With only six numbers from the ensemble’s resurgence period recordings, the setlist was predominantly dedicated to the Santana of yore. The latter half of the show in particular was one faultless segue of extended improvised jams - featuring staples such as Jingo, Europa and Soul Sacrifice - interspersed with Carlos’ very own drawn-out monologues that featured the words love, peace, and happiness mentioned several times and then some.

After almost three full hours of Latin-inflected musicianship, the audience now in an outright sweaty Salsa stupor, Santana and band wrapped up the show to festive cheers that engulfed the reverberating MFCC. Supernatural he may not be, but with performances of this class Carlos Santana comes pretty damn close.

Partly, I Guess

If:

The garden withers and clockwork stops
Hanging ceiling lamps begin to drop
Stairs collapse, hinges rust
Wooden doors are shredded to dust
Wallpaper hangs in moldy lumps
Filth and grime gathers in clumps
The kitchen walls blacken with smouldering smoke
Floorboards and carpets sluggishly soak
Water flows though I close the tap
The drainpipes moan as they burst and crack
Ceramic tiles smash and shatter
Bed sheets are ripped and torn to tatters
My hallway mirror reflection is permanently maimed
The antique coffee table goes up in flames
Fruit on the mantelpiece begins to rot
Stench rises from waste bins forgot

If brick by boring brick it all came down
Would I be upset?
Partly, I guess

But pick, and pry, and poke, and snide, and impose, and intrude, and snub, and snoop, and judge, and gut my little accumulated creative wealth
Then watch me collapse into myself

Kesang Marstrand ~ Coach & Horses, B’Kara, 10/06/2011

{Published in The Times of Malta, 15/06/2011}

Of Roses & Polaroid Love

A subtle warm breeze drifts in through the open paned window of the Coach & Horses. Red, green and yellow light bulbs glow from different nooks and corners around the room, while a ceiling fan whirs idly above. Just in front of a small makeshift stage sits a modest assemblage of people – some in chairs, others legs crossed on the floor – listening reverentially to American folk singer-songwriter Kesang Marstrand. Her guitar jangles sweetly, nails plucking the steel wound strings. Her voice blooms with silky warmth and withers in a hushed rasp.

And just when you think the moment couldn’t get any more ‘Sofia Coppola', a boy and girl ride past on a bicycle in the road beyond the pub’s window: girl holding on to boy’s shoulders, hair blowing in the oncoming wind.

This is the second of Marstrand’s two-night stint at the Coach & Horses, and another opportunity for the folkster to share her delicate songs with a new audience in person. From opening number Grow a Garden she loses herself to her performance, making you believe that even if it were solely you in the room she would still deliver each song with the same wholeheartedness.

“You have my special permission to download my latest album Our Myth for free,” says a smiling Marstrand, having been informed that Malta has yet to be granted access to Apple’s iTunes Store. Brushing her long chestnut hair back behind her ear, she continues with It All Comes Back and Any Kind of Blue, whispering a rather timid “thank you” in between.

Marstrand has a knack for covering the most unlikely material and making it not only work, but wholly her own in the process. Her version of the Michael Jackson and Paul McCartney duet Say Say Say, included on her 2008 debut Bodega Rose, was a great example of how inspiring covers could be when there’s actually some thought and effort put into it.

Perhaps with even more daring, tonight she performs Far From the Home I Love from the musical Fiddler on the Roof; a song that “parrallels my life a lot.” The transition from extravagantly-arranged-musical-number to skin-and-bones-acoustic-rendition is so seamless that it must get other female folk artists wondering how they had never thought of that before.

Marstrand’s lyrics can, for the most part, be safely filed under the love category. Avoid the happy-ever-after Disney section though; these are more the Polaroid film version: grainy, spontaneous, prone to fade over time with just a scribbled line remaining below to remind you of what once was. On Today Next Year she croons, “Now I'm thinking that I should've sung you Happy Birthday softly with my lips against your ear/So I'll do it in my mind now/And I'll do it in the flesh if we're together today next year.”

From her flower-child good looks to her humble disposition, everything about Kesang Marstrand is beautifully understated and captivating. She draws her set to an end with the romantically melancholic Bodega Rose, with its images of endless nights, entangled bodies, and freshly cut red flowers. With another quiet “thank you” that is barely audible over the affectionate applause, she unplugs her guitar, leaving those present to slowly come out of her dreamy spell.

Kesang Marstand

Link for my review on the Times of Malta website posted on Kesang's Facebook page

Glycerine

Look at the glycerine, see it sparkle and shimmer
The line on the horizon slowly dissipating, getting thinner
A thousand shades of white and gray now silver
Contain the leaking blue that floods through the vessel
The hubris of brightness piercing the senses
Tearing down worn-out analogue fences
In the infinite sphere, polystyrene perfection
Not a taint or a blemish to distinguish complexion
Filth and ruin run through veins beneath exo-skeleton
Clog the pipe work to infect communal perception
Above and surrounding the fluid serene
The mindless bliss of electric dreams
Slice the tubing, let solution waste
Wait for the whir and whine of panicked mechanical pain
And while this new corporeal may not rot
The ghost in its machine can only be forgot

Owen Pallett ~ San Gejtanu Band Club, Hamrun, 01/05/2011

{Published in The Times of Malta, 04/05/2011}

A Pallett of Sounds

Taking his cues from a multiplicity of realms, violinist and composer Owen Pallett has formulated an atypical and idiosyncratic musical conglomeration that has earned him, among other things, the prestigious Polaris Music Prize – the Canadian equivalent of the UK’s Mercury Prize. Yet his output thus far has been somewhat overshadowed by his affiliation with more commercially successful acts, such as fellow Canadian folk rock ensemble Arcade Fire.

Now signed to Domino records, Pallett is starting to gain wider attention and is currently touring in support of his most recent album Heartland, performing in, from all places imaginable, the outside courtyard of San Gejtanu Band Club; surprisingly, a characteristically appropriate venue for this variety of intimate event.

Local indie folk band Stalko opened proceedings armed with a set of organic instruments, their wistful melodies equally poignant, as they are playful. A tendency to revert to sweeping vocal chants in most of their songs was at times overkill, but the four-piece provided a fitting start to the night.

A hollow resonant wave of grimy dissonant chords gave way to the twinkling piano-motif exordium of A Man with no Ankles. Having formulated this musical nucleus, Owen Pallett began to blend in layer upon lush layer of looped strings and other assorted sounds not habitually anticipated to exit the wooden chamber of a violin. The effect was nothing short of spellbinding.

Within the space of a heartbeat, the Bohemian musician had already segued straight into Scandal at the Parkade, continuing to showcase the one-man whirlwind of polyphony that he is.

“I’m from Toronto Canada,” was Pallett’s matter-of-fact self-introduction, before he acquainted the audience with his two intercontinental sidekicks onstage: “My violin is from China and my synth is from Sweden.” Not allowing for petty chitchat to get in the way of musical extravaganza so early on, Pallett busily recommenced doing what he does best, with the violin at his shoulder now evoking the sounds of sonorous icicles dripping in a glacier cave.

Across each melodious segment of the gig – song would be too imprecise a word to use here – Pallett’s violin morphed into whole sections of harmonised strings, bass lines, percussion and on occasion even provided a makeshift voice box. The effortlessness and flawlessness of his highly intricate sampling techniques was a show in itself, and despite all the virtuosity on display, there was hardly a whiff of showboating.

Sipping on a glass of wine, Pallett took a well-deserved breather after an incendiary performance of Lewis Takes Action, and in an unconventional format asked whether the audience had any questions or comments. As happens too often on this island nowadays, divorce was the topic at hand, with Pallett offering a rather plausible, if humorous, scenario as to how Malta could make an industry out of gay divorce.

Each aspect of Pallett’s performance was staggeringly versatile and dynamic. Vocally he was a silky tenor one minute, Theremin-like choirboy the next. His lyrics were as equally enchanting, as was evident with lines such as “He spends an hour a day composing little eulogies … But it's mostly garbled phrases and apologies,” on E is for Estranged.

With nowhere to hide offstage, Pallett refrained from doing the usual encore trivialities. Staying put, he finished off with a joyous cover of Mariah Carey’s Fantasy, while some in the audience blew bubbles into the warm night sky. With a wave and a bow Owen Pallett’s aural imaginarium came to an end.

Lesson learnt

“You can please some of the people all of the time,

... you can please all of the people some of the time,

... but you can’t please all of the people all of the time”

NoSnow/NoAlps ~ Beach Haven, Xemxija, 16/04/2011

{Published in The Times of Malta, 20/04/2011}

Far Into the Night

Having set foot in the Beachaven club in Xemxija last Saturday night, anyone would have been forgiven for thinking they had slipped through some subspace highway and landed back in the 1980s. For one the club’s décor, with its tacky print carpet, glass dance floor, and gaudy colour gel lighting. Adding to the impression was the crowd; a babbling horde of low cut vests, 20/20 horn rimmed glasses and artsy blazers, who could have easily been the extras for a music video featuring The Smiths.

The alternative gathering was in honour of local band NoSnow/NoAlps’ debut album launch. Recorded with producer David Vella at Temple Studios, RomantikPolitik has been a good two years in the making and is the band’s first physical release since 2007’s well received Just Rock EP.

The punters were certainly given value for money, as NSNA invited not one, but two bands to open up for them. New girl-band on the block Stolen Creep continued to establish their own following with a confident set showcasing their mock-Manchunian accents and Joy Division-esque riffs. Red Electrick were on what seems to be never-failing blistering form, even performing a brand new riff fest in the name of Picture Perfect.

It was close to 1a.m. by the time NSNA finally took to the stage, uniformed in black t-shirts with blood-red paper hearts pinned to their chests. The crowd flooded the dance floor and the four-piece kicked off with guaranteed fan pleaser Headset. Ignition failed to immediately spark however, Nick Morales in particular visibly not the frantic frontman of usual.

He shoved microphone stands out of the way after the opener to adjust his set-up, letting the audience know what he thought of the claustrophobically small stage. Other vocalist and synth player Sarah Falzon did her best to keep the mood jovial, thanking the crowd for the great turn out and urging all to buy the album. With everything apparently good to go, the band reconvened with latest single Far Into the Night (Without You), forcing the crowd to bounce their collective indie socks off.

New songs Dorothy’s Machines and Cherry Tree kept energy levels turned up to eleven, Morales gradually relaxing through feeding off the ensuing buzz in front of him. “I’m feeling better now. I was feeling very bad before, with all the stress,” he quickly added as an explanation, a sly smile flickering on his face.

NSNA have surely been dealing with copious amounts of stress of late. If completing their debut album wasn’t pressure enough, the band have filmed and released a new music video, organised and plugged their album launch, dealing with changing venues and the logistics of three bands’ gear on one stage in the meantime.

The live setting infused a punkier edge to NSNA, their inaccuracies and imperfections making for a more volatile and electric vibe. Elizabeth, I’s infectious poppy melodies decorated with glittering guitars and soft synths, sounded impressive on the night. Space-meets-Western instrumental Laika’s Revenge - presumably named after the Soviet space dog who was the first animal to travel and die in orbit around Earth – made for raucous fun.

The late start did work slightly against the band. By the time their set drew to a close, a substantial number of the audience had dispersed, although those remaining kept the noise thriving regardless. It was NSNA’s meticulous DIY approach to each aspect of the launch – gig, promotion, video, merchandise – that made the night a true success, and their ambition to give their fans real value for money was nothing short of admirable.

RomantikPolitik may have taken a few years to arrive, but it is well worth the wait. It marks a definite progression, incorporating even more stylistic subtleties into NSNA’s core indie and Ska soundscape, and will surely be the soundtrack of the summer for the local alternative scene.

Pete Molinari ~ Coach & Horses, B'Kara, 15/04/2011

{Published in The Times of Malta, 20/04/2011}

Questions of Authenticity

The fine line between being influenced and being a mimic is one Pete Molinari seems to enjoy treading. At times the inflections of Bob Dylan, Paul Simon and countless others are so vivid in Molinari’s music that he might as well be a kitschy tribute act. On the other hand, hat tipping from the likes of Jools Holland, Ray Davies and Paul Weller, suggests that Molinari does have an authentic voice somewhere amid the cacophony of his influences.

Currently on tour in support of his third album A Train Bound for Glory, the singer-songwriter of Maltese/Italian/Egyptian descent gave two low-key acoustic showcases last weekend at the Coach and Horses pub in B’Kara.

After mingling with friends outside in the cold and consuming sufficient amounts of cheap red wine, Molinari made his way to the small platform in the middle of the room armed with just his acoustic guitar and harmonica. He started the night with what are arguably two of his finest songs, Love Lies Bleeding and I Don’t Like the Man that I Am, and both sounded ethereal live; like folk songs that had been plucked ripe from the same tree of music consciousness Molinari’s heroes ate from. On this evidence it was not hard to see why Molinari has garnered such critical, if not commercial, acclaim.

In between songs Molinari rambled on about his recording experiences and travelling the States, his thick British accent jarring with his Americanised singing voice, gradually wearing away the illusion of authenticity.

“What ever happened to songs of substance? Guthrie, Williams and guys like that?” he half-asked the audience before playing Lest We Forget and Anthem For Doomed Youth, two songs inspired by poems of celebrated war poet Wilfred Owen. As far as protest songs go these cover well familiar ground as blood is shed in vain, freedom cannot be won, and the glorious dead need to be remembered.

With lyrics this watered down you couldn’t help but wonder whether these songs hold any sincere sentiment or are merely another conventional format Molinari felt the need to tap into in order to prove his worth. The singer certainly didn’t dwell on the morose subject for too long, quipping after “I’m also available for children parties.”

Molinari’s set continued to embrace songs from all of his physical releases, as well as ones to be featured on his upcoming album and cover versions. Wishing On the Moon, a romantically wistful tune inspired by Billie Holiday, was given its first public showing and rekindled the magic of earlier on. He finished off the night with a somewhat shoddy cover of The Beatles’ You’ve Got To Hide Your Love Away, leaving most in the room still very confused as to what to make of the artist.

The undoing of Pete Molinari is that he wants to be an anachronism; a freewheelin’ beat romanticist strung out on the promises of Greenwich Village, who is both chronologically and geographically misplaced. From his Dylan voicing and mannerisms, garments straight out of a timeworn suitcase probably found in some retro clothing warehouse, and the constant allusions to America’s golden age of music, everything about Molinari apes vintage. But what made his heroes so significant was that while their formative sound was fashioned by a tradition, they were also not afraid to progress with the times, adding that mind-blowingly novel something to the musical spectrum in the process.

Unfortunately, Molinari seems to be hell-bent on recreating that which he was never even a part of first time round. This is not to say he doesn’t write some truly inspiring songs, but these are so laden with the spirit of his influences as to leave little or no aftertaste of Molinari himself whatsoever. In the end you will only be left thirsty for the real thing.

James Blunt ~ Valletta Waterfront, 07/04/2011

{Published in The Times of Malta, 13/04/2011}

Have you ever met anyone who admits to being a James Blunt fan? Probably not. Yet with record sales exceeding the 15 million mark, there have to be some folks among us who are willingly buying his albums. And not all of these can be apathetic teens buying last minute birthday/mother’s day/Christmas presents (tick where applicable) for their mothers at discounted prices off Amazon.com either.

Most have learnt to keep their love of Blunt hushed for fear of being mocked and showered with ridicule. But there is comfort in numbers, and so with that in mind, James Blunt’s Maltese fan base and assorted tourists congregated last Thursday evening at Valletta Waterfront to witness the artist who was once voted more annoying than traffic wardens and paper cuts, in the flesh.

Shortly after 9p.m. James Blunt walked out on stage to the steady drumbeat and processed guitar riff intro of So Far Gone, waving and urging the crowd to clap along. The musicians sounded as polished as the studio recordings, while Blunt’s vocals came across as being surprisingly more vigorous live. He followed in quick succession with three more songs, Dangerous, Billy, and Wisemen, answering the lyric “Where are you now?” in the latter with a jocose “We’re in Malta baby!”

“I was going to tell you to sit down and listen to two or three hours of miserable songs, but many of you seem to have forgotten your chairs,” the Cherub faced singer-songwriter jested, before promising he would liven things up towards the end. “But for now here is what I do best, miserable songs,” he added as an introduction to his weepy, woeful hit single Carry You Home.

Seven songs in and the audience erupted with the loudest cheer of the concert thus far. No, this was not because All The Lost Souls album track I’ll Take Everything is a surprise favourite amongst the Maltese public, but rather as a result of the camera crew finally managing to get the big screen projection working. Up until that point the larger part of the audience was graced with a glaring screen of blue.

Camera related annoyances were to continue throughout the night. For the subsequent two songs the crew were still fiddling about with camera settings onscreen, and from then on the cameraman would every so often inexplicably lose his sense of direction altogether, suddenly focusing on Blunt’s shoes or the ever so exciting empty right side of the stage.

While there admittedly was a sprinkling of fans engaged with every doleful note swirling out of the tepid sound system, most present were merely counting down the minutes until the next hit single out of the handful came along. On Goodbye My Lover, the Maltese were dubbed the most in tune crowd Blunt had had the pleasure of hearing sing along to one of his songs. You’re Beautiful was met with a flurry of video phones in the air recording every precious second to share on Facebook later and force online friends into fits of shorthand envy. Yet these bouts of elation inadvertently highlighted the lulls of indifference in between.

Clearly Blunt is not the most rock ‘n’ roll soul in the music industry. This did not stop him from an abysmal attempt at crowd surfing however. He returned with his band for encores of Stay The Night and 1973, which sounded genuinely fun and entertaining, and then with a somewhat intriguing “See you all soon” the night came to a close. While Blunt would not have converted many unbelievers with his performance, it was a treat that the faithful relished fully.

Vicarious

Hey look it’s Jim, Jimmy, Jim-bo
How ya doin!? Want a smoke?
Light up, come on, be a good boy now
Beautiful, get us two Bourbons with coke!
Chlink chlink, knock that down JimJim,
Feels good don’t it?
Just you n’ me tonight like ol’ times
Man you lookin’ good Jim!
Me? Nah, look at this here gut
Beautiful, two more won’t ya
So what you been up to?
Really? You don’t say?
Seems like you’ve become a regular romantic
A silver tongued, sheethopping, freewheelin’ romantic
Good on ya, good on ya
Lucky ess oh bee
Bet you wouldn’t wanna trade with me?
Ah nah, cahn’t complain, not really
Jane? She’s been better to be honest
She once glowed, now she leaves perpetual shadows behind her
There’s that something missing
Every mornin’, ya know?
Dark circles beneath those eyes
Yeah, yeah, I know, I know
And I do Jim, I really do
And I know she does too,
Well you know, deep down I do
It’s not easy, but hey let’s not dampen spirits
Two more, chlink chlink
So tell me ‘bout life away?
How did you do it day to day?
You didn’t get bored?
Man, one day I’ve gotta go,
Haha, I know, I know
But better late than never as the suburban say
And don’t it get lonely?
Yeah, yeah
Well bless yer honesty
A day in the life, a day in the life
Believe me, that’s all it would take to make you run away
Drink drink Jimbo
It may not be festive season
But tonight let’s make merry
Beautiful … thanks
When we were young Jim you were my idol man
Funny how things don’t change
You’re still the silvertongued blue eyed boy you used to be
An idol for all o’us stuck on Humdrum Street
You took the road less rambled
The course less crossed
The path less pa.. pa … ahh fuck it
Hhhhhhhhhhhh
Riddle me this Jimbo!
Whatya call a blonde standing on her …
Hey! Hey! Watch it mate!
You just gone an’ spilled half my friend’s bourbon
Nah nah, it ain’t alright Jim,
Hey I’m talkin to you son
Bbbllllll
Aahhhhh ‘k Jim, aaahhh’ k
Byewtifull, yeah yeah two, sil vu play
Hhhhhhhh
Say say? You ain’t with anyone are ya?
My mate Jim here, he be the best there is
Hey come back, come back,
Jim, I'm sorry, I was jus’ tryin’,
How’d d’ya do it Jim?
How’d dy’a do it?
I’ve been tryin’ for fourteen years
Fourteen drawn out, drab, long long years
Still haven’t managed
And ya know what depresses me Jim?
What really jolts my innards into pitiful gloom?
It’s not that I wouldn’t out of some decisive piety
It’s that I couldn’t.
I couldn’t even if it was laid out pretty on a plate and all I had to do was dig in
The damn thing would somehow grow legs and run the hell off
Got no talent for it you see
Got no God-given talent
Hhhhhhhhhuhuh
Guess it wasn’t meant for me,
But it was the life for you JimJim
It was, the life, for you
Nah, nah, you just say that Jim
Cos you don’t know what it's like on the other side
Got no idea, too busy sowing your wild oats you’ve been
Ahhh Jim, JimJim,
Two mowr, twoooo, one-ah two-ah
You’re a good guy Jim,
You’re a good good guy
Goooooood
I-I, I’m hungry
Le’s goww get some foowd yeah?
Tell me more 'bout away
Just you n’ me Jim, like ol’ times

Threaten me with violence ...

Point a gun at my head and I'll dance for you
My feet will flex, my body twist
I'll take to the air
Watch Fred Astaire blush

Hold a knife to my throat and I'll sing for you
My voice will tower and soar
The crowds will gather, open jaws
They'll be asking for autographs later

Threaten me with violence and I'll find the cure for cancer
Innovate renewable energy technologies
Travel through wormholes
The world will never be the same again

Leave me alone, let me be and I will waste away
A nothing, a drifting nobody
Work, home, sleep, play, work
Home, sleep, play, work, home, sleep ...

Patrick Duff ~ Coach & Horses, B’Kara, 19/02/2011

{Published in The Times of Malta, 23/02/2011}

Dead Man Singing

Type ‘Patrick Duff’ into the search bar of video-sharing site YouTube and you’ll come across a clip of Duff’s 90s Britpop band Strangelove, performing their single Freak on some UK TV show. In this video the young Duff, all pasty white skin and greasy hair, frantically struts around the TV studio, jumping up onto an interviewer’s desk, arrogantly kicking off the few props there.

It is hard to believe that this is the same Patrick Duff who is now making his way to a lonesome stool in the middle of the inconspicuous Coach and Horses pub on Valley Road in Birkirkara. Wearing a snug ushanka on his head, there is an unmistakable air of gravitas to Duff’s languidly heavy movements and expressionless face.

He spends the first full minute or so, playing a morosely steady one-chord guitar shuffle, looking straight into the eyes of those in the room with his piercing stare. The babble gradually dies down until all that is left is the rattle of bottles and glasses at the bar.

When he feels he has everyone’s full attention, Duff croons his first words of the evening, a somewhat unsettling “Listen to a dead man singing.” The gloomy jazz-like melody calls Leonard Cohen’s Dance Me to the End of Love to mind. There is also an immediately noticeable Jim Morrison-esque quality to his vocals. By the end of the song the audience sounds surprised with a mixture of both wonder and amusement.

Duff introduces next song Spider Woman as being about falling in love with a woman who is an alcoholic. He sings with a frightening intensity; lips curling at the side, an almost psychotic look upon his face.

Much of Duff’s life seems to have been filled with events that have left him rather disillusioned with modern life and Western mindsets. He shares how since childhood he has been consumed with feelings of foreboding and despair. His ten year stint with not-so-commercially-successful Strangelove left him feeling lost when it all ended, all the perks of a rock ‘n roll lifestyle instantly vanishing.

Duff’s turnaround moment was when he discovered meditation some ten years ago, and this is what he expresses has finally allowed him to be at peace within. Yet Duff’s alleged inner peace is at odds with the subject matter of his meditations that seeps into his songs. These mostly feature ancestral or damned souls manifesting themselves to him, such as on the disquieting, if entrancing, King of the Underworld and Old Man Dewydd.

Six songs in and Duff abandons the microphone and continues in a truly unplugged format. “This is how they used to do it in the old days,” he jests. Flowers on my Grave is dedicated to Tim Ellis of local band Stalko, who “made contact with me, invited me over ... and has treated me like a brother.” This gratitude song’s sweetness offers a brief ray of light in a songlist that is otherwise laden with gloom.

Duff’s performance does become unintentionally farcical at times. He harshly howls melodies at the top of his lungs like a deranged drunkard, and then reverts to moments of almost incomprehensible whispers. During a cover of The Doors’ The End, he replaces the original’s spoken-word Oedipus narrative, with his own bizarre story about the sister of the sun in the middle of the Earth, repeating lines like “the sun loves its sister” over and over.

That having been said, Duff appears to have captured most of the audience’s imagination with his enigmatic persona. He may not go down in musical history as one of the greats of the Britpop movement that he was part of, but Patrick Duff’s newfound musical output is certainly much more intriguing than most other releases by survivors of the same scene.

Maybe

Maybe I’m the boy who never ran in from the rain

Hear the voices calling me in, but I just want to play

Maybe those were the better days

But they’re over now, wake me up somehow

‘Cause I’ll just get soaked again and again and again ...

Maybe when I lie awake at night you do the same

When morning comes the troubles of past days won’t look the same

Maybe promised dreams won’t set me free

But they’re all I have, so while they last

Just hold my hand and dream a dream for me

Don’t tell me now that I look sad

I was the one who made you laugh

The dreams we have they slowly slide away ...

So let me know what’s in my head

Then I think I’ll go back to bed

Where maybe I can dream a dream for you

Now maybe I’m the kind of guy who sleeps in everyday

Wakes up in the afternoon to see the sun set again

Maybe you’re a different shade of me

Though we’re older now we’re the same somehow

Lay beside me dear and we’ll talk tonight away

Maybe you’re the girl who dragged me in the rain again

You got me soaked, you got me breathing, to see my smile again

Maybe better days are yet to come

And the songs you sing were the songs I sung

When dreams were dreams, and life had just begun