The Clientele
It's Art Dad

I've been following Clientele for a while. Since my autumns have had the taste of their flavorful intimacy. This year, I was expecting something from the new "God Save The Clientele." But I found it an irritating tribute to the mushiest spring. All their very British and sixties folk rock dedicated to the goddess of powdered sugar. A criminal waste. So I dusted off this collection of old gems from 2005, and it consoled me a bit.

Sixteen songs from short to very short, between the Byrds and Belle And Sebastian. The originality lies in the cavernous, dark arrangements, like a cold season in a Northern Irish village. In the garden, tuberoses grow, the grass is always damp, the mists embrace your waist. The Clientele take the Beatles and lock them in a tube: the guitars smell of mold, the drums drip, the voice is chilled. "Graven Wood", at the beginning, anticipates the sound of the more recent Albarn, even due to the nasal voice. It’s the wood of hollowed larches and cold taverns. A hypnotic acoustic round and little more.

It is certain that the Clientele sound like a band from forty years ago, just as they are. There’s nothing brit-pop, because there’s nothing modern. The reason why one should listen to the Clientele and not the Byrds is essentially because any generation disowns the previous one and its icons, even when they imitate them.

"Dear Jennifer" is a sixties folk piece recorded with little money. "Elm Grow Window", with its fibrous arpeggios, is among the best things, among the pieces that sweat more Albion, a portrait from an Old England pub, a light pint. "Untitled #2" is the foggiest song on the album: the recording is less than lo-fi, a constant buzz dirties everything, including the lugubrious melody. Few tracks have a classic structure, because the choruses are almost always replaced by other verses, with lullaby effects, trance-like, witchcraft. Misty landscapes. "Can’t Sleep" is an aged song, it’s a digital photo retouched and colored sepia. A clamorous lo-fi patina.

The god of dead leaves, at the end of the album, thanks for the celebration. In return, you’ll have a late afternoon of abysmal nostalgia and a series of night dreams set under the heavy clouds of northern Scotland. Listening to "It’s Art Dad" allows you to go into a long winter hibernation from English music: you'll have enough for months. It can be healthy: give it a try.