One of the side effects of being a little helpless when it comes to matters musical is that fragments of lyric eternally lodge in the mind. They follow you about like restless spirits, stick their muddy paws into your affairs at will. Sometimes, when I look deep in your eyes, I swear I can see your soul. Sometimes I feel like throwing my hands up in the air. Sometimes the truth is harder than the pain inside. Sometimes I grow cloudy, become convinced that I’m a peripheral character in a Bret Easton Ellis novel, forever hanging around in chic, vacuous bars uttering nothing but song lyrics to hipsters not listening.
We could of course consume a significant amount of the internet debating the Bret Easton Ellis oeuvre. The gender politics, the self-disgust. The satirical licks, the violent kicks. Websites will crash and entire systems may hang should we venture down that route: “Ah, that’ll be those music blog geeks at it again” – so perhaps we should save the literary round-table for another occasion. However, it must be noted that as well as littering his books with characters who speak in song lyrics, Easton Ellis is a writer who applies a range of musical reference points to his work. From the U2 gig and discursive interludes of eighties adult rock in American Psycho, to the book titles cribbed from Elvis Costello lyrics, there’s also a barrage of more subtle inflections, a revolving backdrop of famous singers, musicians, DJs, VJs, clubbers, scenesters, groupies, socialites possibly engaged to the same drummer, and the Aphex Twins. As in plural, mentioned more than once, for full post-modern effect.
But enough of that particular tangent. This is a music blog; remarkable records made by remarkable people in remarkable trousers. Regulars will be aware that I’ve been listening to a steady stream of dreamy German electro this week – and I’m not stopping yet. I alas missed Tarwater’s recent Glasgow gig; particularly unfortunate as one half of the band is Ronald Lippock – otherwise known as everybody’s new favourite drummer from the wonderful To Rococo Rot.
Below the words, a stand-out from their 2011 album Inside The Ships. Cue more subtle, fluid and cerebral krautrock-flavoured k’pow. Ja.
Tarwater / Photographed