Lorna Irvine reviews an eclectic evening at Celtic Connections.
To no fanfare whatsoever, Cath and Phil Tyler step onto the stage. The Anglo-American duo's debut album Dumb Supper went under the radar (shamefully, myself included) in 2008—but on the strength of tonight's performance, many will re-investigate it.
It sounds like a howl in the wilderness, or perhaps a lost spirit trying to escape a dead body. Sung in the Sacred Harp tradition (loosely speaking, a chant fused with bluegrass), it is raw and compelling. Phil's banjo picking is exceptionally fluid. When the duo harmonise in their open-throated style, it's like icy fingers over the backbone, as with The Dying Boy—introduced by Cath with a playful smile. 'All the hits from 1848, for ya!' she quips. On a stormy night, such as the ones we have endured lately, playing this may make you start to wonder if the Apocalypse is coming.
If Cath and Phil Tyler are hollering at the world's end, then erstwhile Smog frontman Bill Callahan is the slacker in plaid, standing and lighting cigarettes from the fires- his whole persona seemingly one big shrug.
That of course belies the intensity of his music, which tonight mostly comes from his album from last year: Dream River. The Sing is a dolorous slow-burning opener, but the pace picks up with the 2000 Smogclassic Dress Sexy at my Funeral, which is a much slinkier and poignant proposition tonight than the tongue-in-cheek recording. His Jack Daniels-soaked purr has never sounded richer.
Lyrically, the songs stand like little novellas of country noir—never stronger than the low Gothic rumble of Ride my Arrow with Matt Kinsey's juddery guitar underpinning the line, 'Tear at the flesh, tear at the bone'. It sounds magnificent, dangerously unhinged.
The only problem, sadly, is a tendency towards indulgence. One Fine Morning starts off well, with a drone reminiscent of The Velvet Underground, but soon gets stuck in a rut, to the point of tedium. (The Velvets' live sound was certainly not boring.) There's not enough sonically to hold the attention after around ten minutes. Callahan lacks stage presence, and chat from either he or his band is minimal.
America! similarly suffers- its throbbing, dirty unpicking of the American Dream just goes on too long. More variety within the set would be welcome—and frankly, less dull.
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