Music Review

New York With An English Air

Robert Cochrane — Sat, 14 Feb 2026 19:02:05 +0000

New York With An English Air Robert Cochrane February 14, 2026 - 14:02

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EDWARD ROGERS: Astor Place (TLAK Vinyl/CD/Download)

When the singer whom Quentin Crisp referred to as "Mr Sting" immortalised him in the wonderfully apt An Englishman In New York, it conferred, even now, long after the death of its subject, a lingering sense of exclusivity to the title. Crisp never made it into the new century, bowing out a month shy of it and his 91st Christmas Day birthday in Manchester on the eve of a sold-out tour of the UK. After a long-haul flight from his adopted city, one he had been strenuously advised not to undertake on account of his failing health and advanced years, it was a suitably provincial end to a strangely international life.

There are, of course, a plethora of English exiles in Manhattan. The singer-songwriter Edward Rogers, born in Birmingham but raised in New York, whose output is both nostalgic for the music of his birth country, whilst imbued with a certain Manhattan grit and edginess, is one to consider. His new album, Astor Place, is a gaudy sequence of nostalgic postcards to an era of English songcraft by which he has been cultured and informed. A nod to here, a wink to there, sixties beats collide with a fey, world-weary glam, creating an intoxicating brew that steps free of the shadows of his influences to present a modern, eclectic cascade of memorable, poetic songs. A curious series of English thoughts and Manhattanite references rise and fade.

The title track, a tribute to the central heart of the East Village, skips into life with an exceptional yet appropriate breeziness in its gait akin to the Psychedelic Furs, whilst deploying a rumbling string arrangement of rock refinement.

"Lost stories and forgotten facts

a world of art that still attracts

a new facade with a current twist

still the spot for a secret tryst."

"The Olde Church" presents as an exceptional piece of baroque psych, with elements of Colin Blunstone, mannered yet exquisitely casual, and languid eloquence. A Mott The Hoople swagger emboldens "Lies, Cries and Alibis," a wonderfully confessional piece of down-side rock weariness with an up-tempo glide. "Romeo" could be Blondie circa 1977, devoid of Debbie Harry, a slab of Max's Kansas City meets CBGB's sweatiness and grit. The single "Magical Drum" harnesses Donovan-like whimsy in a tryst with Ray Davies at his conversational best. Effortlessly louche and melodic. Nick Drake on an upward glide.

There's a gossamer psych-folk delicacy to the madrigal "Diamonds Hidden In the Pearls." Haunting and occasionally ethereal, it drifts along and away all too swiftly, whilst "Tears In My Martini" possesses a certain late sixties "Image-era" Bowie vibe, with shades of Mick Ronson's undervalued early solo efforts. Sprinklings of glam seasoning leave a crackling of neon in its wake. "I Walk Behind Your Shadow" could be The Zombies in their baroque best, with a dash of The Left Banke, a beautifully realised paean that lingers in the mind.

"It takes two to make it perfect

It takes two to do it right

'Cause one's the loneliest number

At the end of the longest night"

"15 Eldon Road" swaggers in awash with glammy chords; "All The Young Dudes" with a certain backward glance of sad nostalgia for the loss of childhood. "Every day was summertime, at least in my mind," underscored with wonderful piano stabs and a climax of "cry in your gin" tarnished glitter 'n' regret, akin to Cockney Rebel at their shimmering and moody best. The journey completed from the dark, stark monochrome of '60/'70s Birmingham to Manhattan's vibrant East Village, accompanied by memories that taunt and linger.

"On The Other Side Of the Rainbow" is introduced by a haunting trumpet, a world weariness possessed by wisdom without descending into bitterness—a perfect balancing act of recollections, their pull, and strange power.

Beautifully produced by Don Fleming (Sonic Youth/Teenage Fanclub), Astor Place combines a poetic backward glance with an air of contemporary relevance whilst providing the proceedings with a sense of intimacy and immediacy. Adorned by a gaudy, vivid sleeve, a contemporaneous take on psych sensibilities, the perfect packaging for an album that perfectly wears its influences whilst never drowning under their weight. Eloquent, reflective, and sincere, it presents Mr. Rogers as a likely English contender for Quentin Crisp's Manhattan crown.

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New Praise of Former Glories

Robert Cochrane — Sun, 08 Feb 2026 15:01:19 +0000

New Praise of Former Glories Robert Cochrane February 8, 2026 - 10:01

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John Howard: Can You Hear Me OK? (2026 Prof. Stoned Remaster)

For 30 years, John Howard's sequel to his debut album, Kid In A Big World, remained unheard, unaired, and uncared for. The suits in power at CBS Records had yanked Can You Hear Me OK? from the release schedules of February 1976, and only a lone 45 crept out. Having placed their dynamic new signing in the studio with Biddu and his orchestra, it was anticipated they'd have something they could board the disco train with. What they received was a mannered, sophisticated, and artful affair, more akin to Bill Fay's self-titled, sumptuous debut of 1970 than to glitzy dance pop.

The same sad fate awaited his third offering.

Stars were aligned but not in the favour of the immaculately suited and coiffured boy from a Northern town, with a penchant for baroque balladry. Despite his debut album having shifted 15,000 copies, without the passport to greater glory of a hit single, the suits were cautious, Howard had received no BBC airplay for his brace of earlier 45s and although he wasn't making the kind of overt waves his direct piano contemporary Jobriath was regarding his sexuality, it was easy to discern the true nature of his identity, and there were zero qualms by they that could, about using that knowledge to impede his chances.

As his own career stalled, Howard drifted into a successful career in A&R, his sole album becoming a dump-bin resident that caught the eye of discerning crate sifters. When it was finally given an unexpected digital outing in 2003, reviews were rightfully enthusiastic, 5 stars in Uncut, and a miraculous second bite at the cherry of pop began.

Can You Hear Me OK? was finally introduced to a new and waiting world, even securing a much-deserved vinyl release in 2018. It has continued to be appreciated as Howard's output, twenty-one albums from an extraordinary second wave that thankfully shows no sign of running out of momentum. Now, it has been gifted a Prof Stoned remaster via Think Like A Key label, who secured his exceptional work on remastering Kid In A Big World and Howard's extraordinarily well-received 2025 release, For Those That Wander By.

"19th September" arrives with a cinematic orchestral vista before gliding into an exquisite exercise in rococo balladry, reminiscent of Jobriath: a theme for an unmade movie, lush and intoxicating. There's a distinct air of Bowie-inflected vocal mannerisms within "Frightened Now" with shades of 'Rock n Roll Suicide' whilst possessing an effortless melodic panache, neatly underscored by Biddu's strings. "Two People In The Morning" appears as a breezy sixties series of kitchen-sink vignettes. a pair of star-crossed lovers devoid of stars.

'You Keep Me Steady' is searing and soaring, a piece of Jimmy Webb lushness with a nod and a wink to "Wichita Lineman," the kind of song the late Miss Springfield ought to have made her own. With "Finally Adored," there's a sense of the poignant balladry of Badfinger, a malady of melodies, briefly sublime as they entwine above an effortlessly rolling cascade of piano. There's a decidedly plaintive American pop tempo to "Can You Hear Me Ok?," a letter to missed hopes and lost opportunities.

"You're Mine Tonight" sounds like a poppy Lou Reed on uppers. Some Coney Island Babies transported to Brighton Pier. Sleek and eloquent, it's a walk on the sorry side of yearning. |n "Missing You," Howard combines the lavish with the lush from a glammy guitar opening, it becomes a paean of longing with a prancing melody cocooned in florid piano flourishes and splendid surges of orchestration. A big production with restraint. "Play Me A Love Song" hints at the artistry Kate Bush would later make her own. bold yet seemingly effortless. The curtain closes with the album's lone single, "I Got My Lady," which could and should have fared better.

There's a bonus selection at the end that enhances and embellishes the entire exercise of excavation and discovery. Amongst these, a delightful Eddie Pumer overseeing from 1976 of "Is This My Love" composed by Hurricane Smith and two Trevor Horn productions prior to his ABC and ZTT glories, plus a live take of "I Got My Lady" rescued from a rare BBC TV appearance.

Just as old gems deserve a little TLC, so too do lost songs from half a century ago. Prof Stoned has accomplished a wonderful exercise in raising such dust that has descended as a wonderful coating of glitter. It should be noted that this album sounds nothing like a second effort by a young guy in his early twenties, but reads as an accomplishment by a long-established artist. It can only be hoped that it will soon have a further outing on vinyl and shall continue to gather belated interest and recognition as the lost and neglected classic it most definitely was, and is.

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Here's To A New Year!

Dusty Wright — Wed, 31 Dec 2025 23:36:30 +0000

Here's To A New Year! Dusty Wright December 31, 2025 - 18:36

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dance

“I haven’t fucked much with the past, but I’ve fucked plenty with the future.” - Patti Smith

My new view of the universe remains positive, filled with empathy and compassion. It’s easy to be cynical after this past year. I lost some very close friends and family acquaintances to the great abyss, and the world lost some socially awakened giants across the arts, politics, and life. I’ve faced challenges in my personal life that I will not elaborate on. But I remain steadfast in my optimism for a better tomorrow for my children, my family, and for all of us.

Let’s focus on how we can lift each other up, not knock each other down. Let’s dance the night away and keep dancing into a new dawn.

Peace.

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Freeform '68 or The Beginning Or the End?

Gary Lucas — Wed, 31 Dec 2025 23:07:25 +0000

Freeform '68 or The Beginning Or the End? Gary Lucas December 31, 2025 - 18:07

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I recall buying the second Incredible String Band album, The 5000 Spirits or The Layers of the Onion, in early '68 purely because of the intriguing cover art by The Fool (Simon and Marijke, the Dutch design collective who painted the exterior of the Beatles' Apple boutique in London, Eric Clapton's psychedelic Gibson SG, etc.) On that same day, in that same purchase at Gerber Music in Syracuse, I picked up the latest Mothers' album, We're Only In It For the Money. I took them both home with me and, later that evening, invited my best friend, Walter Horn, over for a first listen.

Long-playing albums as discrete units of Artistic Statement had really come into their own the year before, and a first listen to the latest album by an artist you were already partial to--or a brand new album by an unknown artist you had taken a chance on/thrown down 5 bucks to get to know better—was a Major Event. It was a ritual best enjoyed in the company of like-minded friends. Get the album, take it home, peel the shrink-wrap, put it on the turntable, inhale or imbibe your favorite intoxicant if so inclined—I always chose the former—and LISTEN CLOSELY.

Cover art by The Fool

That night, both these albums blew our minds, to put it mildly.

I had already seen the Mothers live in Syracuse a few months earlier, and had been a fan of Frank Zappa's since hearing his first album with the Mothers, Freak Out!, in late '66. The Incredible String Band was a completely unknown quantity to me at the time; maybe one copy only (if that) of their first Elektra album had made it into the record department at Woolworths in downtown Syracuse, where the most esoteric rock (and a smattering of outsider folk and jazz releases of the era) were all lumped together in a couple of random bins labeled ROCK. Left-field, non-mainstream stuff mainly—like the first couple Holy Modal Rounders albums on Prestige, and anything on the crazed International Artists label, an indie label out of Texas offering psychedelic musique du jour such as Roky Erickson's 13th Floor Elevators, Red Krayola, and Bubble Puppy. But I'd never really heard any of this music at the time, save maybe a track or two over late-night FM radio in Syracuse, which would be WAER.

But that night we listened closely to just about the freshest, most exciting music I'd ever heard, by two very dissimilar artists. My friend Walter was similarly impressed. To this day, I still cite the 5000 Spirits album as my #1 Favorite when asked to compile a list of my all-time favorite albums—and I've never grown tired of listening to We're Only In It for the Money.

The flow of ideas and the flawless execution of them on both albums (though, in truth, they sound nothing alike) left pretty much everything we knew and loved as Great Music up to that point far behind in the dust.

The late '60s in music was like that.

Each new day brought a sonic advancement on what came before—a tiny revolution, or a Great Leap Forward, as to what music could be or represent. Music's power to cast a spell upon the listener was at its height. Music as both an enchanting chemical reaction in the brain and a creative force to be reckoned with.

The Dream is Over, though—"over a long time ago"—as Steely Dan sang.

These days, the sheer ubiquity of Music as Commodity—in effect, virtually the entire history of recorded music, most of it easily accessible and most of it available for nothing over the Net by a push of a button or a stroke of your computer key--like endless water flowing out of a tap—has rendered the numinous Power of Music for all intents and purposes null and void. (Read Heinrich Von Kleist's short story "St. Cecilia," or "The Power of Music" to get a flavor of what I'm driving at here in invoking the historically sacred potential of music to move mountains/topple dictators/change human consciousness. I wrote a song about this, actually, early on, entitled "Jericho," which urged the listeners/fellow musicians to "Make the walls fall down in Jericho!" Jeez, was I naive.)

Any artist attempting to rally the troops today with some kind of anthemic song statement—be it everything from a gentle evocation of the one-ness of humankind pace the Youngblood's "Get Together," to the absurdist mass sing-along WTF-does-it-all-mean rant of Dylan's "Rainy Day Women (Nos. 12 & 35)", i.e.; "Everybody Must Get Stoned"—is met with an indifferent shrug of the shoulders.

These days, Everything is Nothing...and Vice Versa.

Still, go back and check this Incredible String Band album below, which was greeted as the British Folk equivalent of Sgt. Pepper on its release in 1967. It still sounds as fresh as the day I picked it up on a whim--as does Zappa's We're Only In It for the Money. They both have a timeless aura surrounding them like an invisible force field. Although, hey, a cynical hipster could dismiss the ISB as "Hippie Music" and, in the case of Zappa, "Anti-Hippie Music."

I am not that cynical.

I'll give Zappa the last word:

“Information is not knowledge

Knowledge is not wisdom

Wisdom is not truth

Truth is not beauty

Beauty is not love

Love is not music

Music is the BEST"

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Kid in the Digital World

Robert Cochrane — Tue, 21 Oct 2025 01:34:53 +0000

Kid in the Digital World Robert Cochrane October 20, 2025 - 21:34

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JOHN HOWARD: Kid In A Big World Prof Stoned Remaster (Bandcamp)

John Howard's auspicious debut, Kid In A Big World, has been around for fifty years and, as such, deserves some aspect of acknowledgement. A belated celebration cum reassessment in the form of an impeccable remastering via the diligent hands and vigilant ears of the redoubtable Prof Stoned, a man who can gild the most fragile and perfect of artifacts. Like a freshly repolished and reset gem, the album now glints and glitters in the fresh light of recent days.

It is salient to mention that for nigh on thirty years the LP was a dump-bin resident, rescued by the discerning on account of the stylish sleeve image of an immaculately attired young dude in a suitably sharp suit with its title and artist's name proclaimed by elegant typography. All that changed two decades ago when it was reissued to the kind of acclaim a forgotten artist might only ever dream longingly of, as a lost baroque late-glam masterpiece.

First time around, it had sold a respectable 15,000 units, but CBS rejected the follow-up, and its successor was recorded with the legendary Biddu as not being sufficiently commercial. A brace of eminently catchy singles, "Goodbye Suzie" and "Family Man," failed to find favour on the BBC playlists; the first was deemed too depressing for having suicide as a theme, whilst the second was considered anti-women. Both reasons are transparently and ridiculously spurious. Homophobia was rather trendy and acceptable in the seventies, and despite John Howard not creating the sort of antagonistic lavender wave his direct contemporary Jobriath had, and paid dearly for doing so, his mere appearance and style were easily read by the disapproving. With no hit single, his bigger splash dissipated, and despite staggering on for a few more years with several singles that went nowhere, Howard developed a successful career in A&R. His dreams of stardom were consigned to the attic of memory. Those trials and tribulations are readably and humorously annotated in three delightful volumes of autobiography.

But what of his fifty-year-old debut? It was and remains a perfect mission statement, a stylish and accomplished affair that promised much in the shape of itself and of things to come. Considered but never contrived. Poised but never precious, it has aged like a wine of exceptional vintage and betrays little of time having passed. What Prof Stoned has achieved is a form of digital Botox. A freshening up that gives greater clarity to the artistry within. There have always been the inevitable lazy comparisons to Elton John on account of his use of piano, but Howard never resorts to a faux American whine, his style being eloquently English with a nod and sly wink to the theatrical, just as Jobriath harnessed aspects of Old Hollywood and vaudeville. A cross between Laura Nyro in cahoots with Noel Coward, with an Aladdin Sane lightning bolt across his face, imbued with shades and tones of Hunk Dory, sets the sonic tone. As do the equally English delicacies of Philip Goodhand-Tait, or the American sentiments of Randy Newman.

Breathe in the exquisite and languid air of "Goodbye Suzie," indulge in the discreet decadence of 'Guess Who's Coming To Dinner' or the divine flights of ecstasy within "Missing Key," and you have entered a perfectly realised world curated and created by a supremely talented kid in his early twenties. From Palm Court effeteness to discreet Glam affections, this is a beautiful work from then that remains supremely relevant to now. A tremendous shame persists that it has yet to earn its rightful place in the pantheon of treasured musical accomplishments of the seventies and beyond.

Although only presently available as a download, this impeccable exercise in aural renovation deserves a vinyl release. I would love to see a gatefold affair that utilises the rejected photographs of John in a scarlet fedora, bookended by a beautiful pair of Afghan hounds. Those images caused the respectably suited and booted executives at CBS to clutch their imaginary pearls in outraged horror, banning their use, and then demanding that a more acceptable set of shots be undertaken.

The kid of those days has aged into the Walt Whitman of Glam with a glorious cascade of albums from the past two decades. A perfect maker-upper for the loss of lost time, but this return to the beginning is an absolute treat for the uninitiated and a timely enhancement for those already aware of the kid in the big world. It will prove to be a luxurious punishment of riches.

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Twelve Hours Before

Robert Cochrane — Mon, 25 Aug 2025 14:22:59 +0000

Twelve Hours Before Robert Cochrane August 25, 2025 - 10:22

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Bridget St John - The Carlton Club

Manchester, England - 21^st August 2025

TWELVE HOURS BEFORE (A Poem for Bridget St John)

Twelve hours before

as night consigned that day

to where all days reside,

she'd stood alone in the spotlight

whilst diamonds from a glitterball

caressed her form,

embellishing her coloured cloak

as she sang afresh the songs

of brothers from her muse

she had outlived,

as love restored their words

from her crafted presence,

which time alone allows

to carve from within.

A voice of cello elegance,

resonant and unassumingly sublime,

stilled the room,

some gift from time.

Her own songs rose and swooped

as birds in evening do

between the light of day

and night's encroachment

and as her silence fell,

head bowed as indication of completion,

she left the stage beneath a rainfall of applause,

an emissary from another time

but of the now.

This morning as I wandered through

my local coffee shop

with its usual discretion of piped jazz

I spied her seated with a friend

which made me smile because

the evening had more punctuation

to extend into a Friday dawn.

As she walked by I said her name,

she smiled in gratitude

and whispered

'I remembered you from the dark last night'

as I thanked her for those songs,

but when I turned my head

a little later

her table had been cleared

concluding her brief vignette of reprise,

reclaimed by traffic noise,

the clatter of cups,

conversations heard,

but not discerned.

-------------------------

The Carlton Club lies tucked away in the leafy Manchester suburb of Whalley Range, mentioned and immortalised by Morrissey in his Smiths song "Miserable Lie:"

"What do we get for our trouble and pain?

Just a rented room in Whalley Range"

It played host the other evening to English export to New York, the legendary songstress Bridget St John, who captivated a considerable audience with an all-too-brief catalogue of her exquisite songs and those of those she'd known along the way, Michael Chapman, Nick Drake, and John Martyn. All sadly gone.

Her quartet of albums, three on John Peel's legendary Dandelion Records, beginning with Ask Me No Questions in 1969. Plus Jumble Queen on Chrysalis in 1974 marked her out as an innovator of English singer-songwriters, although she admits from the stage that the term "Folk" has never felt appropriate, nor accurately representative of her craft.

She was joined by her friend and occasional collaborator, Emma Tricca, who had proved a sublime support act, her own creations possessing gossamer-like elements, underlined by a profound certainty of tone. A talent of immense elegance, and one worthy of discovering if you wish to unearth a new repertoire of worthy gems, Aspirin Sun, her latest album, is a perfect place of modulated beauty to work backwards from.=

During her set, she had been assisted by Pete Greenwood, another remarkable and deceptively understated talent whose set of songs betrayed a deep intelligence and songcraft, aided manfully by his exceptional and refined guitar skills. His debut solo work, Sirens, from 2008 on Heavenly Records, remains a touchstone work that provides constant pleasure via its gently understated accomplishments.

It proved a magical evening, three individual talents under the same roof, something to cherish after the lights went out and the doors of the Carlton Club closed on its Victorian splendour.

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The OZ Man Cometh!

Gary Lucas — Wed, 23 Jul 2025 00:37:20 +0000

The OZ Man Cometh! Gary Lucas July 22, 2025 - 20:37

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John Michael "Ozzy" Osbourne (3 December 1948 – 22 July 2025)

I saw Black Sabbath’s second ever show in NYC at the Academy of Music on 14th Street, 10/22/71—a very late show, right after seeing the reformed Deep Purple at the Felt Forum. Jon Tiven, Christopher Chesnutt, and I took the subway from Madison Square Garden downtown into this Gehenna-like late-night scene in the plush old Academy.

They opened with their snappy little tune "War Pigs" and proceeded to bludgeon the midnight gawkers—most of them on downers, semi-comatose—into submission (as if they weren’t already soporifically altered/halfway there already). Hardly a sign of life from the crowd.

Ozzy presided over this necropolis with aplomb and gave it his all with that magnificent baying voice of his. Waving his hands and wiggling his hips at the end, trying to get the audience on their feet. Tony Iommi, Geezer Butler, and Bill Ward gamely pumped out their thick metallic sludge behind him—but the audience was not cooperating.

"Come on, everybody, clap your hands!!"

Crickets.

"Everybody on your feet!!"

Nada.

"AhhhHHHH, FUCK THIS!!"

Unable to get the crowd moving one muscle, despite his heroic exhortations, a frustrated, pissed-off, formerly Mr. Peace-and-Love Ozzy rapidly turned rabid.

He whirled around and grabbed one of the floor-toms off Bill Ward’s drum riser, and then hurled the whole fucking thing at the audience. Where it landed—SPLAT!—in the orchestra pit, missing the front row (but not by that much). Black Sabbath then stalked off the stage very quickly.

Unforgettable, total showmanship in the face of apparent audience indifference.

Blame it on the ‘ludes.

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The OTHER Lou

Gary Lucas — Fri, 11 Jul 2025 01:37:37 +0000

The OTHER Lou Gary Lucas July 10, 2025 - 21:37

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R.I.P. Lou Christie (19 February 1943 - 18 June 2025)

Very sad to hear of the death of the great soft rock vocalist and teenage angst emoter for the ages, Lou Christie, born Lugee Alfredo Giovanni Sacco.

Lou’s mid-'60s AM radio anthems "Lightning Strikes" and my favorite "Rhapsody in the Rain" were odes to male priapic lust of the adolescent variety, enveloped in near-Spectorian productions which featured thunderous orchestrations, crooning dirty white girl group-type backup singers (kinda like The Angels) standing in for the objet d’amour in lyrical question who whispered, commented on, and answered Greek chorus-like Lou’s falsetto call of frustrated desire with encouraging yelps and screams, urging him on to GO ALL THE WAY!

Which he does on both of these singles.

Years ago, I appeared on the syndicated Joey Reynolds Radio Show with my pal Mitch Myers in support of his book The Boy Who Cried Freebird.

Joey’s other guests that night were the legendary Lou Christie himself and the late John "Cha Cha" Ciarcia, owner of the fantastic Italian pastry joint Cha Cha’s of Little Italy at 113 Mulberry Street. Caroline had cast Cha Cha in many a mob-related film (Mafia movies and TV series being just one of her specialties. She currently is casting FX’s Gravesend), so we got a little 3-way repartee going after I played some deep blues on my National steel:

Cha Cha: “I know his wife!”
Me: “But not in the Biblical sense!”
Joey: “Have to cut to a commercial now to pay those bills! Lift that barge, tote that bale!”

After a break for our sponsor, Joey interviewed Lou, who was sweet, gracious, and charmingly modest. After the show, I told him how much his music meant to me growing up, especially "Rhapsody in the Rain," the earworm follow-up to "Lightning Strikes."

Lou: “You know that?? We got banned all over the place with that record!”

But not in good old heavily Italian-American Syracuse, where I grew up.

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Too short a tribute. Good start though.

How about a little research? Why was the song banned? The opening lyrics.

"Baby, the raindrops play for me
A lonely rhapsody cause on our first date
We were making out in the rain
And in this car our love went much too far
It was exciting as thunder
Tonight
I wonder where you are?

The windshield wipers seemed to say
"Together, together, together, together"
And now they are saying
"Oh, never, never"
Ooh wee, ooh wee, baby"

MGM had Mr. Christie rerecord them.
As Wiki notes a "clean" version" was sidestep the ban.

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Ethereal Is Not A Dirty Word

Robert Cochrane — Thu, 05 Jun 2025 01:28:55 +0000

Ethereal Is Not A Dirty Word Robert Cochrane June 4, 2025 - 21:28

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Ania: Secret Garden (AniaBmusic)

A strangely eclectic sensibility is evidenced on Ania Brzozowska's new album, Secret Garden, her second. Although Polish, a Celtic flavour pervades, a breath of Irish mellowness and charm with her delicate mastery of piano and violin. Assured and elegantly underscored, as though Tori Amos were in cahoots with Enya, you'll have an idea of the classicism at play. Not that Ania is a mere pastiche of both or either, she brings her distinctive grace and style to the ears of the listener. There's a flawlessly other-worldly feel to her music, but it remains grounded, earthed by sublime musicality. Her image is wrapped in floral motifs, and musical signatures sourced from other times, an approach of ancient modernity. Understated yet encompassing.

"Secret Garden" is a perfect opener, featuring a delicately picked harp. Shades of Caroline Lavelle echo and beguile this slow-burning epic. Ania's voice is subtle, never cloying on account of possession of an earnest earthiness. This haunting madrigal soothes the listener into her otherworldly vistas. If rolling piano motifs and subtle violin lines resonate, here is the perfect ticket with all its gifts of haunting refinement. Mannered but exquisitely accessible.

With "Another Day," there is a sparseness of piano, a lament that holds the delicate space it inhabits with a melancholy ambiance. As it builds, via a sadness of violin, the sense of restraint is palpable, as her vocals effortlessly glide, whilst underscoring and harnessing the fluidity of the song.

"Another week gone by

And not a minute too soon

Another passerby

Staring up at the moon."

"Reach My Shore" is a slow waltz imbued with a gossamer moodiness. A swirling of bells and piano, it broods and aches with gentle drama. A small slice of reflective perfection, perfectly judged and elegantly delivered. This aching beauty continues with "Autumn Leaves," a perfect capturing of longing, absence, and regret as winter draws in. An exercise in brevity, it has an icy warmth in all its piano-strummed ghostliness and sorrow.

"I see your lips, the summer kisses

The sun-burned hands I used to hold"

A brave song to cover arrives in the form of Chris Isaak's masterpiece of failure and fatalism, "Wicked Game," bedecked in baroque refinement with delicate violin lines, it weaves a hypnotic web upon the listener's heart. Stripped of its lyrics until the last few seconds, she allows it to exist as a classical piece, an astute departure that works intuitively and eloquently. '"Love Songs" possesses the timbre and ache of early Kate Bush. Measured yet gently soaring, neatly scored with piano in a dance with barely borne violin and swaying vocals.

"Sound Of Silence" is one of those songs you'd assume should be left untouched, especially given Disturbed and their manful reinvention of it in recent years. Ania takes it back to a more medieval feel—a sense of older, more innocent and magical times, but with a world-weary aspect. As the violin rises softly over the elegantly picked guitar, there is restraint within the longing expressed, those elements of profound sadness. Dramatic in an understated way, it saunters and sails to a conclusion of gentle resignation and decline—a minstrel in a gallery conceit.

"En Aranjuez Con Tu Amor" by the Spanish composer Rodrigo, from 1939, becomes an epic soundtrack of ambitious proportions, awash with cello and violin, and blessed with an exquisite vocal take. Ethereal yet supremely magnificent via a certain consideration of restraint, it swirls and cascades, slowly building without ever bursting forth till the entire affair gently slips away. A precise and elegant revisiting. It closes the vinyl version, which is a thing of elegant beauty in its splattered elegance. What closes the CD, the acoustic version of an earlier song, "Reach My Shore," proves a perfect exit piece of vulnerable simplicity that encases the eloquent concision of her voice. Ania is a singer who is not fearful of space because she knows exactly how to occupy and harness it, a trait she shares with Norwegian songstress Cecilie Anna. All seems effortless, which is an aspect of the magic involved.

Ania could be described as Pre-Raphaelite for modern times. An elegant soul with a sublime lightness of touch. Her visual presentation has a floral intensity that suits and complements her deceptively gentle sound. With this album, her secret garden should be a secret widely shared and poorly kept—a breeze from the past with modern times in mind.

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A Minnesota Matinee In Manchester

Robert Cochrane — Tue, 20 May 2025 15:16:37 +0000

A Minnesota Matinee In Manchester Robert Cochrane May 20, 2025 - 11:16

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Music Review

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concert review

Gaelynn Lea and James Holt

The Band On The Wall, Manchester

17 May 2025

Manchester is the recipient of sunshine, not rain on a mid-May Saturday. The streets buzz with the clink and chatter of an almost European ambience, as people make the most of the driest stretch of days in many years. The Band On The Wall, however, maintains an inviting darkness despite the change in the weather.

Waiting to be served, I am approached by a small lady in a wheelchair as she glides past potential obstacles with an easy confidence. She smiles, "Are you the support act's father?" Just as I begin to explain that I'm not, the woman beside me announces that she's the mother of James Holt and introduces her husband, the true father sought in the question. Gaelynn Lea, in her motorised chair, immediately scoots across to them. This composer, violinist, and singer I've never seen live, but this almost introduction makes me relish the prospect of the afternoon's performance with an added frisson of anticipation.

The support act, the previously mentioned singer-songwriter James Holt, specialises in confessional, articulate pop maladies. An engagingly relaxed presence, his songcraft is immediately evident. There are shades of Dylan, Emitt Rhodes, and the cohesion of fellow Mancunian troubadour John Bramwell ( I Am Kloot). It's easy to discern why he's garnered admiring plaudits from many, including Brian Eno. The songs are reflective and complex, with sixties sway and swagger, and by his admission, they aren't always the happiest, but therein lies beauty. "The Wedding" fillets his sorrow over a failed love interest who marries another guy, a surprisingly up-tempo affair given the loss attendant in its subject matter. This elicits a playful heckle from Gaelynn, who is perched at the back of the venue, as she berates him for enjoying a good wallow in despair, which he manfully agrees is true. I would recommend his "Sanguine On The Rocks" release to those in search of new aural delights, a treat that will not disappoint, nor indeed will any of his work.

When Gaelynn takes the stage with her guitarist Richard Carter, there's a faint ripple of anticipation. Because of her small stature, she plays her violin like a cello. It is a perfect arrangement, an inspired compromise. Her sound builds via loops and pedals, and with a knowing nod to her accompanist, with whom she shares an eloquent rapport and fluency, the show begins. The songs are unique confections that enter the heart and haunt the soul. At times her voice fuses with the violin, as though it, the instrument, and she are as one. The sound has a gypsy baroque element, neither country or folk but a beguiling hybrid of both with a sense of refined classicism. An enchanting and mesmerising energy pervades. As she performs, an expressive reverie is present in her eyes. There's an element of Cyndi Lauper to her voice, along with the dedicated concentration of an artist in perfect fusion with her evocative creations.

Lea is promoting the music she wrote for Daniel Craig's Broadway portrayal of Macbeth, and introduces these pieces a little apprehensively on account of them being aired out of context, but she needn't have worried. They are beguiling and work above and beyond their initial purpose as incidental motifs to complement a revered drama. Their pathos and musicality become extraordinary. She expresses her disappointment that many of her favourite musical moments were cut from the play, but is grateful that she got to hear them, albeit once, from a Broadway stage, in an empty, darkened theatre.

Her haunting ballad "Some Day We'll Linger In The Sun," written about her husband, a beautiful gesture she only confessed to much later, is one of the afternoon's highlights. At times, I felt tears rise as the music soared and flowed. Later, she even whips the crowd into an audience participation sing-along. All too soon, the magical reverie is over, the moment flown. Her intrinsic artistry is slowly reaping the recognition her diligent efforts deserve. Collaborations with Low have raised the stakes in her favour, as did her Tiny Desk win (video at top) in 2016. Her first visit to the UK in several years, these shows are a timely reminder of her unique gifts. This Manchester gig is the Minnesota natives' first matinee performance, a uniqueness she is happy to experience and embrace.

Afterwards, Gaelynn mingles with her audience for a chat, a captivating soul with an infectious giggle. On the metro, I was deflated to realise her compact discs had slipped out of my not-quite-sealed rucksack. Beyond the initial sense of loss, a faint hope rose that they'd be found by someone who'd take them home and discover moments of grace from my lost tracts of musical delight. Perhaps matinees, though a thing of the past, might have a bright future. A new kind of afternoon delight in Manchester, Minnesota, and beyond.

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Gaelyn Lea revue

What a superb revue, totally captures what was a magical concert.