Now, with Mute bucks tucked beneath his belt, Richard Hawley's hawking his shtick
to the masses, masses who may or may not actually be all a-clamor for the former
Pulp/Longpigs guitarist's old-timey songwritten sentimentalism. After two albums
cut in independence, Hawley's made mighty good use of his newly-afforded monies,
finally getting the tone and the sessions and the strings on these recordings
to gleam as they do in his dreams. Whilst some men dream of fortune, and some
men dream of fame, Hawley seems to dream solely of being some new-millennial
Roy Orbison; his Big O overtures to Audience seem like some unending serenade
to an imagined — or, indeed, dreamt — Mystery Girl, their languorous
pace, orchestral richness and deeply-voiced croonery all essentially pieced-together
platitudes proffered to lure this idealist Listener/ship into a musical boudoir
of cologne-drenched velour curtains, vibrating beds, and a palette of bloodied
reds. Hawley seduces not by merely selling himself, or his music, but by peddling
the evergreen currency of Nostalgia, making himself a man who makes music that
harks up a distinctly different era. And, via this romanticism, he hopes we hear
his songs as echoes of a more romantic time. There's plenty of charm in such,
with Hawley's arrangements having that feel of some authentic, hand-crafted antique;
he shows the jones for tonalism, here, that he did on that right-royal-good A
Girl Called Eddy gear early in this year. What's to be debated, with such, is
whether this ruse — making things faux-old-fashioned, like some newly-made
piece in an "antique" style — is as romantic as its innate romanticism would
suggest. Hawley calls his craft — and, whilst we're talking bill-playing
skills, "Born Under a Bad Sign," with its woven Spanish guitar, glockenspiel,
and guitar leads, is one beautiful toilet-roll ballerina — a way of arresting
the rapid-fire times that herald the modern world's inexorable descent. As is
par for such a sentimental sentiment, this is a pitch for the forgotten virtue
of patience, and Hawley plays his trump-card, in communicating such, by posing
on the front cover, out front of Sheffield's favorite rendezvousin' point, Coles
Corner. Here, our hero's patiently waiting with a bouquet of flowers in hand
(as opposed to, y'know, clutching his mobile, calling his potential paramour
every two minutes to see how much longer they'll be). Which is romance that speaks
to me, loudly, clearly. |
