This Is Not TV

Jonah Matranga has been about a bit, but has been about a bit behind the scenes. He’s done this, done that, fronted this, written that, but only from the wings, in the margins, at the edges. Fed up of being consigned to the ‘thanks to’ list of history, he has written another entire album of stuff to pour directly into the ears of the public and ‘So Long’ is the first single to be taken from it. Curious that it has taken so long. Ha.

With its truncated lines of verse and insistent strum like the idling of an engine, ‘So Long’ is a song about a short farewell made long, but at just shy of three minutes not that long. Jonah’s voice has a wide-eyed innocent sound coupled with an untutored clarity, emphasised by the ‘natural’ small room effect on the vocals. Behind all this, a slide guitar wails soulfully and a basic rhythm keeps the beat on the drums. Very simple, very clean, like a young James Yorkston or Richard Hawley, but with an element of authentic pop similar to John Denver or Glen Campbell – more so than Richard anyway. If any criticism could be levelled at it, it would be that it is too erudite, too obvious. But, as I said, he’s been doing this for a while; honing down to the bones of a subject must be second nature to him. Short, blunt but pointedly familiar.

Popularity: 2% [?]

What happens to the other half of a double act when one half goes solo? Musically, history has not been kind on the whole. Andrew Ridgeley, Sonny Bono, Richard Carpenter… wait a minute, he couldn’t help that. Never mind, point is I hope you’re happy, Roisin – what’s who’s his face gonna do now? Come to think of it, what are YOU doing now?

Just about everything, if the blurb is to be believed. She’s had a hand in writing, producing and, oh yes, performing on her new album and looks determined to join the ranks of such trans luminal notaries such as Bjork, Kate Bush and Tori Amos as an entertainer in her own right. But it takes more than a decent pair of lungs to run with the wild ladies of music; you need that dangerous, unpredictable and slightly ‘crayzee’ spark.

‘Overpowered’ starts promisingly. An army of riff marches forward to a Michael Jackson beat like a martial disco version of ‘Popcorn,’ which is joined shoulder to shoulder by the purloined cadaver of the riff from Yazoo’s ‘Don’t Go.’ Apollonian synths urge on this bizarre, macabre procession up to a musical Acropolis where Roisin resides, android-goddess-like over the vocal meat of the song. Only trouble is, it sounds like a de-sexed version of the Scissor Sisters’ ‘Skins.’ Um.

Fortunately, that souled-voice finds more room to expand in the chorus, but this is a more serious excursion than anything Moloko tossed about: “When I think that I’m over you, I’m overpowered,” she sings with impassioned resignation. Sexy, but hollow. In fact, the liveliest moment is in the bridge when she goes a bit Grace Jones. More scary than crayzee.

This song also sports an array of lousy, clunking lines. I mean, “Your data, my data” along the same lines as “Potato, Potata,” and all this “oxy toxins flowing ever into my brain.” If that was one of your lines, Roisin, deny it.

To be fair, it’s not a bad little pop song; it simply lacks the immediacy of Moloko or the individuality of ‘those ladies.’ A starting point, perhaps, but it will be a long, hard climb to genuine pop uniquity.

Popularity: 15% [?]

Old Modfather meets newish Modcousin in mutual arse-crack licking contest? How’s that for cynical music fan, Mr Press Release Writer. Actually, I’m not that cynical; I think everything’s great, apart from the stuff that isn’t. So why the abrasive comment? Meh, there’s a new series of X Factor starting, Big Brother still sits in the C4 schedules like a malignant media tumour and it’s still at least a month ‘til iLiKETRAiNS release their debut album. This single’s not that bad, though, so excuse my moodiness.

Okay, it’s hardly reinventing the wheel. Take a good-time rock and roll riff lifted from the Faces (the original Mods?), filter it through the Wildhearts and coalesce it into a form that is neither The Jam or Blur. The sound is pure, undiluted guitars, drums and bass; a snatch of orchestration rears it’s head like a turd in an ornamental pond, but it is soon removed and disposed of. And curiously enough it is not Weller’s distinctive vocals that lead the song but Graham Coxon’s haphazard and homely tones. In fact, Paul only comes in to lend support on the chorus. As a song it kicks along nicely, ends on a drumble and simply entertains with it’s presence. Like a bacon sandwich made with decent bacon and bread, this a crude but satisfying collaboration, and with hardly any rimming at all.

Popularity: 4% [?]