Nick Kamen
Move Until We Fly

Who? Oh, right. The one with the quiff, Madonna's protégé. And down we go with the '80s, the crappy music, the teenage girls, he was cool though, but otherwise, heaven forbid. Calm down. Leap of faith. You’re not obligated to grant it: but I'm asking you anyway.

This review stems in opposition to those tearing their clothes apart https://www.debaser.it/nick-kamen/move-until-we-fly/recensione, who have a reason for being because otherwise, I wouldn't be here writing aimlessly.

No, by 1990 we were no longer in the '80s. No, the quiff of the third-born Kamen (Nick has two older brothers: Chester, a renowned session guitarist, and Barry, an abstract painter who designed the cover of this album, who sadly passed away two years ago) was gone. Snip! Removed.

Who writes to you here, between 1986 and 1990, played a little cleaner fish with pop. Acquired, reworked, returned. Being uninterested in the outer aspect, poured passion and frenzy on the musical aspect. Don't laugh, I see you.

"Move Until We Fly" doesn’t seem like a product crafted to sell. It's melancholic, rather introspective, seeming to renounce the artist's recent past, who, seated, aside in a corner, narrates the torments of a twenty-eight-year-old who no longer dances winking at cameras, but looks down and whispers, most of the time mutters.

The same opening single, “I Promised Myself," handed down to posterity because it’s catchy and radio-friendly, hides a veil of resignation, of presumed incompleteness. "How many of us out there, feel the pain, of losing what was once there?" “Oh How Happy,” enriched with a gospel, the album’s first cover, is overshadowed by sparse arrangement but always seems to speak of past happiness, of an echo. The other cover, masterfully rearranged by Andy Richards, "Looking Good Diving," is an altruistic piece, its sole demand is to implant the chorus into the listener’s chords until they are convinced. And again, in "Take Back My Hand Child,": "I'm trying hard, to overcome, the fears I feel inside. I can't deny those lonely nights, the tears I hold inside...." Musically vacant, dark (you can feel it from the intro complete with a trumpet which we will find in the excellent refine before the last round of chorus), you can tell the guy is disconsolate, lost, and has no qualms about calling for help.

Let’s continue, if you haven’t skipped me yet. "We Can Make It," "Agony And Ecstasy," and "You Are," if played in succession, represent the album's pinnacle. What better declaration of eternal love than: "Late at night, I check the news on the tv, I pray for the future. Why can't we make our dreams reality? Sit right here, and talk to me, I think I know how you're feeling. I'd listen to you anytime of day..." Or what more raw alert than "Don't say that you love me cause you won't see me anymore" to those who just want to cuddle him? "You Are," the favorite of who writes to you, sparse in text yet elaborate and sad in the musical background, isn’t it the cry of pain from someone crushed by a reality that violently cuts him off from the loved one, probably sick or about to die?

And then, the long title track closing the album in a slow epilogue, whispers in the refine: "Heaven knows...she's on my side...I've waited so long, I can fly.... I'll watch over you forever...", doesn't it make you think that perhaps, no, he doesn’t want the covers anymore, but just to sit alone at a table to chat, hoping you are also haunted by the same fears? Everything makes sense if permeated with music, clear.

Of little importance "Somebody's Arms To Hold Me" and "I Want More," pleasing the third cover "Um, Um, Um, Um, Um, Um" ("I just can't help myself, I was born with a curious mind...").

The credibility of the artist Nick Kamen was placed on the green table, played, and lost, with the self-titled debut album (1987), stuffed with classics in the form of covers, and probably from the second album "Us" (1988), where the image inevitably ended up suffocating the content. "Move Until We Fly" is a mature work, a silent yet fleeting high jump. The jump was done well, with care, with honesty and transparent cards, this time. Too bad there wasn't a mattress down there waiting for him, Nick. And, falling, the Levi's guy, the guy with the quiff that he no longer had, was shattered. The following album, "Whatever, Whenever" (1992) was made with a defibrillator. And, being neither fish nor fowl, it was crushed, thrown away like an empty can. Forgotten, and it was worth it. "Move Until We Fly," however, deserves to live.