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sphere of dread, while the tremolo guitar and keening background of Nr 1 Nr 2 Nr 3 frame a mysterious narrative that could be the first chapter of a Jim Thompson novel or the first shots of a classic film noir.
And that’s just for starters. Apparently recorded on cassette, the delicate, lovely Highbird, accompanied by just a picked elec- tric guitar and loose drums, has the feel of those ghostly Dylan bootlegs such as I’m Not There, I’m Gone, or some of Bon Ivers’s efforts (but much more tuneful) – just wait for a cover version by Birdie to hit the charts any day now. Get The Moon Up is pure Chicago blues meets Western Swing, with Hubert Sumlin’s spirit on the guitar solo, while Low- bird has Sam the Sham rhythm and organ stabs leading to Hendrix-style slow guitar, bird trills and screams, and the pedal-steel- enhanced, slow country-soul Stuck In The Bones is a perfect snapshot of a day, sparse and understated. But the killer has to be Crooked John, where Norgren builds a tale of fear around voodoo quills-playing like Alan Lomax and Shirley Collins heard that night in Mississippi in 1959, mixed by Doctor John, with crackling guitar chords and spooky-sweet seconds of organ.
It takes a lot to make this uber-jaded reviewer go back to the beginning of a CD and listen to the whole thing through straight away, but I swear this happened. For- get the references (did I mention Ramsay Midwood?), they’re only pointers to what’s going on in this off-the-wall, out-of-kilter and plain exciting album. I’ll have a pint of whatever he’s having, please.
www.superpumarecords.com Ian Kearey FAIRPORT CONVENTION
More Things We Did On Our Holidays (The Cropredy Festivals) Secret Records SECDD032
Somewhere, thinks I, this has sneaked out before. Stir the collective brain cells… maybe as part of a series of short-run cassettes Wood- worm used to issue satisfying the appetites of the faithful. Titles such as The Other Boot, The Third Leg; there were others of course.
Cropredys under the microscope are 1986 and 1987. One thing which strikes is how direct Fairport were, how, even though we thought they knew the game they them- selves realised the band had to grow their reputation all over again after six years away. Whilst they’re pressing, Cropredy itself was more intimate, and more Convention- focused. The bills were fairly rootsy with big- ger names filling out the main Saturday night beanfeast. In fact I recall standing alongside our esteemed Editor at the 1987 bash: “Are you reviewing this then, Ian?” “Nope,” replied he in jocular fashion, “you are.”
Both years there was plenty to get in a lather about. ‘86 had seen the re-emergence of Ian Matthews after a spell of backroom employment. Now with the bit once more between his teeth in front of a sympathetic crowd, he and Fairport turned in sprightly takes of really early Convention material, Time It Will Show The Wiser, Reno Nevada having a particular appeal. Woodstock goes all acapella with harmonic support from Richard Thompson, Clive Gregson and Chris- tine Collister. Matthews even gives Who Knows Where the Time Goes a sympathetic makeover. Cathy Lesurf is mostly off the radar now – a real shame since put to deserving material as on The Quiet Joys Of Brotherhood her vocal was stunning, buoyed by Dave Mat- tacks on keyboards and Jerry Donahue’s rivet- ing guitar solo to close.
1987 carried the banner high too, RT being in particularly dazzling form, his guitar spiked and vindictive on Hand Of Kindness.
VARIOUS ARTISTS
From the Kasbah, Tunis To Tahrir Square, Cairo & Back Network 495135
The Arab Spring was documented and driven by 140 character bulletins, polemics and reportage. YouTube hosted phone footage of oceans of ordinary people, outrageous acts of repression and, ultimately, heart-rending moments of defiance and liberation. Long days and nights in public spaces bred singa- longs of campfire favourites and football chant staples. But those temporary camps also became living arts projects, hothouses for new songs, born in the streets, or at least recorded with an unswerving eye on 24-hour news coverage. Less than six months on, this timely compilation – has a world music release ever felt so topical? – presents some of the soundtracks of those protests.
The songs themselves are a fabulously mixed bag: on the Tunisian side Zohra Lajnef's Tunis Hurrah! sounds like a typical patriotic number that with a few lyrical changes would have served the ancien regime as well as the nouvelle vague; rapper El General's, stomping four-square Rais Lebled (Head of the Country) plods some- what; Hymn Of The Revolution is a classical hymn from composer Rabii Zamouri and has come straight out of a nineteenth century patriotic tradition: only Alia Salimi's torment- ed Revelation captures something of the inner struggle and the shock of changing identity that revolution offers.
Egypt, meanwhile, always had a head start: Cairo is a powerhouse of music for the Middle East. Take Cairo rockers Hani Adel from Wust al Balad and Emir Eid from Cairo- kee – their Sout El Hureya was sung on Tahrir Square and has already earned classic status; meanwhile Nubian superstar and Egyptian national treasure Mohammed Mounir record- ed Ezzay three months before the revolution but the choppy tune was adopted by the protesters, attracting more than three million visitors on YouTube (go buy as much Mohamed Mounir as you can get your hands on, by the way.)
Rosie has Dave Swarbrick once more amongst friends and hamming it up gloriously. Cathy Lesurf’s back with a great shot at Tomorrow Is A Long Time, though the real stars are Fairport themselves who totally mutate The Lark In The Morning and Matty Groves thanks to Ric Sanders who was still playing his cosmic jazz fiddle and made full use of its echo and sweep. You can hear the Oxford- shire pastures echo as he draw his bow across the charged strings.
Yes, they were all
younger, some of them had dodgy barnets, some still had barnets, there was less silver, more salt and pepper, but this was a great time to be a follower of the Convention. As a primer for Cropredy sceptics or as a keepsake for the regulars, it’s particularly effective. Puts you right there whether you went or not. Anymore in the vaults then?
Simon Jones
Rosie Ledet
In all, this collection is a hugely admirable attempt to present a snapshot of the music that filled the air in just two of the cities caught up in this historic movement, the final outcome of which we still don't know. While NATO planes bombard Libya, another govern- ment topples in Yemen, and government forces attempt to put down demonstration after demonstration in Syria, drag yourself from the newspapers for an hour and enjoy this pice of uplifting actuality.
www.networkmedien.de Tom Jackson
ROSIE LEDET Come Get Some JSP Records JSP8835
Always beware of publicity blurb that boasts how the artist concerned is “dragging into the 21st Century” whatever roots music it happens to be; it’s usually more about trendy posturing than actual music. In the case of zydeco – an ever-evolving form that’s gleefully embraced blues, soul, funk, rock, rap and dance over the past 50 years – it’s a bizarre claim.
Rosie Ledet has been toting her sultry- voiced, pumping-iron brand of zydeco for a good few years now and made good records in the process. Her singing is soulful and sexy, and the rhythm section can certainly nail a beat, with former Beau Jocque sideman Chuck Bush cranking out some deadly bass lines. Ledet’s music occupies a similar space in the zydeco spectrum to Jocque’s hardcore brand, but while her accordeon playing is similarly stripped-down, she doesn’t have the same nose for a killer riff.
As for dragging the music forward, some of the influences she brings to the party, which include bubblegum pop, funk and boogie, are curiously retro in flavour. Beside her, Andre Nizzari seems intent on a personal homage to 1970s rock guitar heroes (Chris Spedding springs to mind) and spatters wildly overdriven licks over Baby What You Do To Me with unintentionally hilarious results. It all chugs along agreeably, but Zydeco’s Great Leap Forward? Don’t think so.
www.myspace.com/rosieledet Brian Peters
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