Buzzle Bee
High Llamas
Duophonic/Drag City
We are only three months into the year 2001, but so far, it must
be unanimously agreed, the future is a disappointment. Instead of
heralding an age of anti-gravity shoes, shiny silver tunics, world
peace and casual lunch dates on the moon, the 21st century--grimly
presided over in suits and ties, or worse, polo shirts--has prosaically
carried forward all the unfinished business of the 20th. The future,
as it once was vaguely understood in the annals of sci-fi, is a
mirage from the past.
But thanks in part to musicians like Sean O'Hagan, at least one
crucial component of that evolved utopia--the soundtrack--is here
right now. O'Hagan is the leader of the High Llamas, a strange band
with a strange name who have been making beautifully strange music
lately. On their new album Buzzle Bee, tree-climbing chord
progressions collide with quivering vibraphone and marimba ("Pat
Mingus"); oddly sexual French ad jingles circa 1965 recombine with
flaxen vocals and gurgling analog synths ("Get into the Galley Shop");
while space-age lullabies float past lyrical impressions of exploration
and observation ("Bobby's Court"). A little bossa in places
and very nova all around, this is full-bodied but succinct
new music with texture, subtly yet tectonically shifting tempos
and dimensions in a gossamer and polychromatic web.
Beginning not as a group but as the title of O'Hagan's 1990 debut
solo LP (which
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High Llamas' Sean O'Hagan:
Not going to Smile.
STEVE DOUBLE
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followed the breakup of his previous band, the cult '80s Irish folk-poppers
Microdisney), the name stuck when O'Hagan convened a band for 1992's
Santa Barbara. The High Llamas spent much of the '90s crafting
a succession of literate and smooth pop albums, earning a reputation
as a sort of latter-day British translation of the Beach Boys--for
better and for worse. With a consistent mix of gently plucked banjos,
trotting rhythms, orchestral strings and sunny-yet-melancholic harmonies,
yesterday's Llamas, borrowing frequently from the Brian Wilson playbook,
were not always so reliably high.
A good case in point was 1996's sprawling 77-minute epic, Hawaii,
a blissed-out cabin idyll suspended in a warm goo of organs, horns
and emotive melody by turns thrilling and tedious; often returning
to drawn-out variations on the same theme, the album could have
benefited from more Wilsonesque pop concision. On 1998's Cold
and Bouncy, the group imagined what Pet Sounds would
have sounded like in the age of electronica (and twice as long).
The title, it turned out, was too accurate: Pleasantly shimmering
to a fault, it very quickly bounced away without a trace.
But 1999's underappreciated Snowbug brought O'Hagan's own
songwriting skills back to the fore, blending the far-out editing
techniques of Cold and Bouncy with a self-assured control
over musical influences, which broadened to include the carefree
kiddie-rock aesthetic of the Free Design and the genial smarminess
of '60s-era sexploitation soundtracks by Ennio Morricone--all without
a single smirk.
However, as O'Hagan tells me over tea at a Chicago café,
his erstwhile label, V2 Records, was not that interested in Snowbug's
weird charms. Made with the help of several of Chicago's underground
all-stars (Jim O'Rourke, John McEntire, Steve Albini) and O'Hagan's
South London neighbors in Stereolab, the American pressing of the
album was briskly snapped up by the nerdy muso set. But the label
"wouldn't re-press it," O'Hagan says. "We were supposed to tour,
and they pulled the tours. Everything you're supposed to do to support
a record, they wouldn't do. And this was their argument: Because
we weren't going to sell 200,000 records, they may as well spend
no money."
The brainchild of Virgin Records mogul and hippie capitalist Sir
Richard Branson, V2 originally seemed like it might live up to its
claim to marry the personality of a small label with the vast resources
of a major. Inevitably, though, it came time to account for the
brutal economies of scale in the conglomerated music cartel, where
it makes perverse sense to concentrate one's resources on blockbusters
(acts like Moby and the Stereophonics, in V2's case) and let the
rest wither on the vine.
Hung out to dry and left on the shelf, O'Hagan asked to be released
from his contract. "They were quite happy to let us go," he says,
with a look reminiscent of a neglected midlist novelist. "And I
have to say, all the people I trusted and liked at V2 eventually
left too." Soon afterward, though, Buzzle Bee was rapidly
recorded and released to acclaim last fall on Duophonic, the label
owned by O'Hagan's old friends and collaborators in Stereolab. (One
of Chicago's popular independents, Drag City, picked it up stateside.)
But enough about business, so we change the subject to Buzzle
Bee's lyrics, a garden of imagist delights and incongruent syntax
where astronauts and mannequins mingle with angels, rye fields and
cosmic DJs. I'm particularly struck by "The Passing Bell," the album's
entrancing opener, which describes a bucolic daytrip of lazy people-watching;
O'Hagan explains that he is in fact singing about William Blake's
walks out into the Surrey countryside. "The poets like Blake or
Browning are quite interesting figures to me," he says. "These are
people out of time, not defined by their own time."
He goes on at length about one Blakean musical analogue, the legendary
jazzman Moondog: "This 50-year-old bum, with partial sight, lived
in the street you know, making his own music ... he's a man out
of time ... in 1955 he was doing this."
Incidentally, this interview happens to be conducted on Election
Night, and the café staff interrupt the jukebox with NPR
reports of election returns and exit-polling data. As O'Hagan's
conversation excitedly swirls with talk of Browning and Blake and
Moondog, I cannot help but pause and note the contrast. Buzzle
Bee makes sounds from some distant future--or some distant past--as
it washes over the listener in a timeless ooze. The radio may as
well be going on about Nixon and Kennedy, or Truman and Dewey, or
Kirk and Spock.
O'Hagan is not alone out there, however. Part of a supportive community
of forward-looking pop alchemists, fans of Buzzle Bee should
seek out Saint Etienne's recent Sound of Water and Kev Hopper's
Whispering Foils, both of which are graced by O'Hagan's unmistakeable
arrangements and instrumentation; likewise, any Stereolab album
is also worth looking into. Broadcast's moody The Noise Made
By People is another good place to go, as is Boards of Canada's
sly Music Has the Right to Children. While the rest of the
planet seems stuck in the protracted 20th century, all of these
musicians blast off anyway, oblivious to the rubbish clogging the
airwaves. The rest of us just might catch up, maybe by around 2101.
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