Take the opening track ‘Johnny Knows The Roads’, fr’instance. It eases in with a nagging, Tubular Bells-like intro, before spinning off in a playful tribute to the navigational skills of guitarist John Bruce, and a lament about how the traffic in Auld Reekie (ie Edinburgh, for those not in the
The deadly serious Liz Jones (she isn't really) |
Often though, Liz Jones’ songs occupy more thoughtful territory, as on the likes of ‘Broken Lens’ and ‘You Can Cry’. The former drifts along on a steady rhythm, with strumming mandolin from Suzy Cargill, pinpricks of guitar from Bruce and strokes of organ from Jamie Hamilton, and an imaginative lyric about friendship and reassurance. All of which is fine, but the clincher is the lovely melody delivered in Jones’ warm, beguiling vocal – with a swirling organ break from Hamilton as the icing on the cake. ‘You Can Cry’ is in similar “shoulder to cry on” territory, but even more late-night-contemplative, a slow burn of a song with classy piano and guitar turns, and convincing characterisation from Jones, stretching out the notes.
This kind of roots music with elegance and depth is often their sweet spot. ‘Lethargy’, for example, is a gently strolling tune given a rhythmic lift by Suzy Cargill’s bongos, riding a hypnotic acoustic guitar theme from Jones, spiked by stings of electric guitar from Bruce, while Jones contemplates the world – and the remains of last night’s whisky – from beneath a duvet. But ‘Mother Earth’ is a real highlight in this vein. Re-imagined from Jones’ 2022 solo album Bounty, it’s a calm reverie of pitter-pattering percussion, hesitant acoustic guitar and burbling electric piano, as the basis for Jones’ crooning voice. But the real kicker is the quasi-Arabic turn it takes in the final third, with Hamilton’s keys to the fore in masterly fashion. Gary Davidson’s drums pick up to compete with Cargill’s bongos, and Bruce’s guitar buzzes around like an unseen bee.
It's not all deep’n’meaningful fare though. ‘Takin’ Your Time’ is a slice of tootling rock’n’roll with neat quiet/loud shading, and Welsh guitar-picker James Oliver complementing Bruce with some rockabilly fireworks. And ‘Double Measures’ is a jaunty excursion into – gawd help us – gypsy jazz, complete with fiddle courtesy of Douglas Montgomery. Normally I can only submit to gypsy jazz if it’s the kind of debauched wig-out perpetrated by Gogol Bordello, but fair play, Liz Jones does paint the morning-after-the-night-before picture convincingly. Still, if I’m going to have jazziness, I prefer the woozy smoky Parisian feel of ‘Can’t Go Home’, with Jones smoochily in search of the exotic, embroidered by chiming piano and a serpentine slide break from Bruce when they pick things up.
More typical though, are ‘Bala Man’ and the closing ‘Jesus’. The former is a tale of an acquaintance made on long train journey – Jones is always good on observation and local colour – with a resonant theme that shifts between guitar and piano, with skirls or organ, tickles of organ, and moments of muscle. Meanwhile ‘Jesus’ is propelled by a mesmeric, trotting rhythm reinforced by Rod Kennard’s insistent bass, dropping down to just the percussion before guitar, piano and organ have a final conversation over the top.
Think Gerry Rafferty, maybe. Think Bonnie Raitt, a little bit. Hell, I dunno - think Highway 61 Resurfaced if you like. Maybe I could do with some more horse power here and there to give Double Measures balance. But hey, Liz Jones is a top drawer singer and songwriter, and she and the Broken Windows produce inspired, genre-fluid roots music.
Double Measures is released on 8 November, and can be ordered here.
No comments:
Post a Comment