Eric Matthews
The Lateness Of The Hour

I confess I have a soft spot for a certain category of artists.

Those who in the pop scene seem destined, from the very beginning, to stop just short of success. Or rather, those who decide, not entirely consciously, to relegate themselves to a sort of no man's land that hosts those who "have everything for", songwriting skills, a handful of spine-tingling songs, even the physique du role, and yet end up becoming cult singers for "aficionados" of my kind.

They stand on a ridge from which it would take little to lead them into a triumphant, or ruinous, depending on the point of view, "downhill run". It would be enough to smooth out some edges, simplify overly rich arrangements, avoid shadowy and "bittersweet" atmospheres, rely on the expert hands of a celebrated producer to see the doors of fame open. But they are not interested in that. Undeterred, they continue to do what their inspiration dictates, chiseling their pieces and polishing them until they become almost diaphanous. A prominent place in my Olympus inhabited by these muse-kissed losers, not very ambitious and quite stubborn, is occupied by the Californian songwriter, now nearly forty, Eric Matthews.

A precocious talent, conservatory graduate, good trumpeter, and multi-instrumentalist when necessary, with a very varied and "omnivorous" musical education, even classical music isn’t shunned, our protagonist made his mark in '94 as a sublime co-author and arranger of the self-titled debut of 'Cardinal', a unique album in every sense, and the only album of the duo formed with his friend Richard Davies. His now over a decade-long recording career counts only three other works in total, further testifying to the somewhat troubled artistic path: the last dated 2005, an unexpected resurrection, "Six Kinds of Passion Looking For an Exit", his first solo, "It's Heavy in Here" ('95), an underappreciated classic of orchestral and "maximalist" pop and "The Lateness of The Hour" ('97), on which I would like to dwell.

The opening track, with the vaguely decadent title "Ideas That Die That Day", already contains many of the reasons that led me to join the small circle of his followers: a voice that the English describe as "breathy", a cross between Elliott Smith and Nick Heyward, an uncommon ability to blend the best of the American pop tradition with the "Albionic" one, a songwriter's flair for nuance, a keen sense of arrangement (arranging is currently the job that sustains him). In "To Clear the Air", he firmly holds the maestro's baton, creating a small chamber orchestral pop jewel, with the participation of his "The 451 Philharmonic". With "Yes Everyone", one of the album's peaks, it sounds like hearing a less tormented Elliott Smith, relocated to the misty "highlander" Scots. However, not all of his songs require substantial "seasoning". In "Everything So Real", a "guitar-bass-drums" is more than enough to create a sublime pop song, akin to the more carefree XTC tunes.

But I would not want to deprive those who will trust my inadequate words of the delightful surprises they will find in "The Lateness of The Hour", by indulging in an exhaustive and thorough critique. Just know that disciplined imagination distinguishes the album and that no two tracks are the same. An alternative route could be to start from the end with track no. 13, "No Gnashing Teeth", a four-minute summary of the best sunny pop of the past three decades, with the trumpet of our protagonist, leading the finale, adding that "je ne sais quoi" of nostalgia.

Getting to know Eric Matthews and entering among the officiants of his underground cult could be one and the same. I will be happy to personally welcome all these new adherents.