My first exposure to Brummie indie band Johnny Foreigner came in December 2008, when I saw them support The Futureheads in Cardiff. I thoroughly enjoyed their set and wasted little time in ordering their album from play.com, but in all honesty, the CD didn't grip me like the live show did. Waited Up 'til It Was Light felt messy where the gig had been fun and energetic, and while quite a few of those songs were pretty good on their own - check out Lea Room, below - I found the album in its entirety to be rather exhausting.
I haven't really returned to JoFo in the years since then. They do come to Cardiff every so often, but though I always tell myself I'll go, that Futureheads gig remains the only time I've actually seen 'em in the flesh. My Waited Up 'til It Was Light CD, meanwhile, has scarcely left its case since early '09.
So why, more than five years on from that first encounter, am I writing a blog about Johnny Foreigner? Well, a few days ago, I received an email containing a link to the band's latest set of tracks, You Can Do Better. I sort of ignored it at first, but I eventually decided that it was high time to give JoFo another gogo and see how the new album hangs together.
Welcome to the third instalment of A Crack in Everything, where I look at the bad bits of brilliant albums. Click here to see what it's all about, and to read the last two blogs in the series.
Neutral Milk Hotel's second album isn't exactly a unanimous classic. A lot of people don't like it at all, with the unrefined sound and Jeff Mangum's even more unrefined voice frequently proving to be a fatal pair of turn-offs. And hey, I'm sure that there are plenty of people who just don't care for these songs, regardless of lo-fi production and hypernasal vocalists.
Still, the people who do like this album...well, they really like this album. Numerous publications (including Blender, Pitchfork, and Q) have included In the Aeroplane Over the Sea in a 'Best 100 Albums' list. The vinyl version is among the best-selling records of the digital era. There's a Neutral Milk Hotel fan page on Twitter with over three thousand followers, and this album's artwork is the page's profile picture. In spite of some people's bafflement, there's still a lot of love out there for ItAOtS, and for the record, my tent is very much pitched in the latter camp, the one where everyone gathers around a campfire each night to show off their ropey cover versions of Two-Headed Boy.
As far as opening tracks are concerned, my general rule of thumb is to start with a bang. I feel that a big, attention-grabbing gambit tends to make for the best beginning; the five tracks that I mentioned in my Track Ones blog (cripes, that feels like an eternity ago now) are all pretty good examples. The Chad Who Loved Me has its epic movie strings...Cloud Shadow on the Mountain gives us those pounding drums...heck, Grace Kelly Blues starts with a friggin' brass band!
Lately, though, I've been coming around to the opposite approach, i.e. opening your album with a quiet, gentle song. Matthew Jay's Draw (which I recently received in a 1p Album Club swap) starts with a song called Four Minute Rebellion, and it's the most stripped-back, simplistic, and affecting song on the disc:
This track - being relatively unembellished and less than two minutes long - feel like the sort of thing that ought to be buried somewhere in the album's mid-section. And yet there is a certain charm to the idea of easing your listener in, and Four Minute Rebellion is a pretty arresting opener in spite of its slightness. The sweet melody and tactical F-bomb make sure of that.
Matthew Jay's minute masterpiece got me thinking about other such track ones - which other classic openers knock politely instead of tearing the door off its hinges?
Little Bear by the Guillemots springs nimbly to mind. I realise that I was blogging about Through the Windowpane only a few days ago, but the album's first track is also a great example of what I'm talking about here.
Since this is The Album Wall's 100th post (woo milestone!), I thought I'd give you all a treat and finally explain the reasoning behind my Top Ten list on the right-hand side of the blog. These are my ten favourite albums of all time - of all time! - and today, you're going to find out why.
Fables of the Reconstruction by R.E.M.
Why I Bought It: I was just starting to dig into R.E.M.'s rich discography. I'd already bought Out of Time; this was my next purchase, mainly because it was the cheapest one in HMV that day (£3!)
Why I Love It: Its sound is intriguing and mysterious when compared to other R.E.M. releases, and the loose running theme (a lot of tracks focus on unusual characters from the South) makes it a little more cohesive than its cousins. Oh, and it's the album that houses Life and How to Live It, which may possibly be my favourite song of all time.
I'll always think of Supergrass as my second-favourite band, even if dozens of artists have overtaken them over the years. Excluding my 'don't count' years, which were spent listening to stuff like B*Witched and 911, Supergrass is 10 was the joint first album I ever bought (the other was In Time by R.E.M., who of course will always be my very favourite band).
If you've never wiggled your toes in the 'grass - perhaps you judged them on Alright alone, or perhaps you're from one of those countries that doesn't have Supergrass - I'd be more than happy to point the way for you. Here's a list of their discs - I recommend spinning them in the order given.
1. Supergrass is 10: The Best of 94-04
Yep. The band's (slightly premature) greatest hits compilation makes for a pretty obvious launchpad, but hey, it works. It certainly worked for me, anyway - the songs on this album kickstarted a love affair (or a recurring booty call, at the very least) that has lasted for the best part of decade. Yes, you'll hear Alright and Pumping On Your Stereo,but even if you're not a fan of those tracks for some reason, I'd wager that the likes of Mansize Rooster and Going Out will still enchant you. If not, well, you should probably cut your losses and stop here.
