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There are moments when I sit and reflect, meditate, philosophize on the most sermantic aspects of human nature, on the rational inclination of traditional African thought, on convertibles and currencies, dollars, pounds, florins, and kopecks, I feel them flowing inside my slow kiss, exalting the value of life. But damn... all this was missing was a long-winded speech, and for what? To introduce a discourse that's quite been done and redone, that of hype, damn filthy disgusting ugly beast (combo). Hercules And Love Affair, you (or rather he) remember them, right? Come on, 2008, in full Antony-mania, the mega-hit was "Blind" and it was/is liked by pretty much everyone, except apparently not by me, I found nothing in it back then and still don't now. Yet, a few years later I listened to both their debut album and the following "Blue Songs", and... nothing, a cosmic void, I don't remember a single melody, and having another go at them, in light of recent developments, is out of the question. By now, I had completely forgotten about the very existence of Andrew Butler and his music project, at least until I had the chance to meet the adorable Victoria Hesketh alias Little Boots; "Nocturnes," her second album, which I have already dealt with by showering it with well-deserved praise, contains a song produced by Mr. Hercules And Love Affair: "Every Night I Say A Prayer", not even among the most notable episodes of the record to be honest, but it was enough to reignite my curiosity. My curiosity sometimes reignites at random, well, it happens.
So, Andrew Butler is serious, after the self-titled debut in 2008 and "Blue Songs" in 2011, the third album arrives in 2014, this "The Feast Of The Broken Heart". Thoughts, judgments, considerations, evaluations? Dreadful, this is really AN ALBUM NOT TO BUYYYY, as Richard Benson would say; there are albums that may have good ideas, interesting concepts translated in a confusing, or discontinuous, or clumsy way, but where you can still salvage something, maybe even just the intentions, perhaps some fragment here and there, here not at all, only the cover is saved, which, for that matter, has nothing to do with the actual offering and helps create false expectations. These are the much-marveled Hercules And Love Affair, the gurus of intelligent, cultured, and alternative dance/funk/house? Ok, I take note. TFOFTB is an irritating, unpleasant, cold album, with an exhausting monotony. Listening to it entirely has put my patience and nervous endurance to a severe test, a possibly useful exercise of resistance but one I absolutely do not intend to repeat. Andrew Butler literally declared: "I wanted nasty basslines, stormy, bleary-eyed sounds, fiery, rough, tough and ragged old school house productions that sounded almost techno. I didn't want polite, I wanted aggressive", what to say, either it's me living in a parallel world, and that might be, or it's a colossal boast. Fiery, rough, tough!? What, this rehash? Come on, my introductory long-winded speech makes more sense!
In theory, it should be a record to dance to, I couldn't even dance to these suffocating rhythms tanked up on vodka, if this isn't a failure... maybe I'm the strange one, perhaps, but in here I only feel a sort of commercial R'n'B devoid of bite with semi-falsetto voices (the vocalists are quite mediocre and lacking in personality except for John Grant, for whom I don't rave about at all). Occasionally some very vague funky-disco hints, synth-pop reminiscences in "My Offence", probably the most potable track of the bunch, but really very little substance. Absolutely no nerve received, aside from the bombastic declarations, faded endings, or in delay, or ad libitum or however the heck it's called that just further weigh down an ensemble already stagnant and regurgitated. And then the songs are all friggin' identical, one more sluggish and repetitive than the other! I doubt an album by Justin Timberlake or Ne-Yo or other garbage-singers of that kind could have "granted me" worse sensations, at least in that case one already knows what to expect, here I expected a minimum of personality, a richer sound, a visual imagery, something stimulating, but absolutely zero, nothing, nada. I even had to write a review to give some semblance of purpose to all those wasted minutes.
Bah, Andrew Butler might be a great DJ, a great producer but as pop songwriting goes we're really at abysmal levels, there are records with a more "plebeian" and theoretically mainstream target ("In The Air" by Morgan Page, the one I wouldn't trade for Jimmy Page for all the gold in the world, you remember, right?) far more enjoyable and even varied. Thinking back to the remarkable boom of "Blind" (still better than the feeble stuff on this album, although, let's face it, without those trumpets there's little left and the voice is unbearable) it almost makes me laugh, bitterly; there are people who get excited over the worst offering of Lady Gaga, or M*****a, just because they're presented with the right image, with the right style, with the right attitude, in the end, it seems to me the very same story here. "It really doesn't matter if you know how to sing, the only thing that matters is the girls that you bring, so when I saw you standing there just asking for some curly hair, I knew that I was getting where I wanted to be", the packaging more important than the content, ah, but how well they knew!
So, Andrew Butler is serious, after the self-titled debut in 2008 and "Blue Songs" in 2011, the third album arrives in 2014, this "The Feast Of The Broken Heart". Thoughts, judgments, considerations, evaluations? Dreadful, this is really AN ALBUM NOT TO BUYYYY, as Richard Benson would say; there are albums that may have good ideas, interesting concepts translated in a confusing, or discontinuous, or clumsy way, but where you can still salvage something, maybe even just the intentions, perhaps some fragment here and there, here not at all, only the cover is saved, which, for that matter, has nothing to do with the actual offering and helps create false expectations. These are the much-marveled Hercules And Love Affair, the gurus of intelligent, cultured, and alternative dance/funk/house? Ok, I take note. TFOFTB is an irritating, unpleasant, cold album, with an exhausting monotony. Listening to it entirely has put my patience and nervous endurance to a severe test, a possibly useful exercise of resistance but one I absolutely do not intend to repeat. Andrew Butler literally declared: "I wanted nasty basslines, stormy, bleary-eyed sounds, fiery, rough, tough and ragged old school house productions that sounded almost techno. I didn't want polite, I wanted aggressive", what to say, either it's me living in a parallel world, and that might be, or it's a colossal boast. Fiery, rough, tough!? What, this rehash? Come on, my introductory long-winded speech makes more sense!
In theory, it should be a record to dance to, I couldn't even dance to these suffocating rhythms tanked up on vodka, if this isn't a failure... maybe I'm the strange one, perhaps, but in here I only feel a sort of commercial R'n'B devoid of bite with semi-falsetto voices (the vocalists are quite mediocre and lacking in personality except for John Grant, for whom I don't rave about at all). Occasionally some very vague funky-disco hints, synth-pop reminiscences in "My Offence", probably the most potable track of the bunch, but really very little substance. Absolutely no nerve received, aside from the bombastic declarations, faded endings, or in delay, or ad libitum or however the heck it's called that just further weigh down an ensemble already stagnant and regurgitated. And then the songs are all friggin' identical, one more sluggish and repetitive than the other! I doubt an album by Justin Timberlake or Ne-Yo or other garbage-singers of that kind could have "granted me" worse sensations, at least in that case one already knows what to expect, here I expected a minimum of personality, a richer sound, a visual imagery, something stimulating, but absolutely zero, nothing, nada. I even had to write a review to give some semblance of purpose to all those wasted minutes.
Bah, Andrew Butler might be a great DJ, a great producer but as pop songwriting goes we're really at abysmal levels, there are records with a more "plebeian" and theoretically mainstream target ("In The Air" by Morgan Page, the one I wouldn't trade for Jimmy Page for all the gold in the world, you remember, right?) far more enjoyable and even varied. Thinking back to the remarkable boom of "Blind" (still better than the feeble stuff on this album, although, let's face it, without those trumpets there's little left and the voice is unbearable) it almost makes me laugh, bitterly; there are people who get excited over the worst offering of Lady Gaga, or M*****a, just because they're presented with the right image, with the right style, with the right attitude, in the end, it seems to me the very same story here. "It really doesn't matter if you know how to sing, the only thing that matters is the girls that you bring, so when I saw you standing there just asking for some curly hair, I knew that I was getting where I wanted to be", the packaging more important than the content, ah, but how well they knew!
Tracklist
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