The French Quarter are not French. They are, in fact, Glaswegian, and this small but perfectly formed 7-track offering is not French either; I don’t know what connection this five-piece have with la belle France at all. Ah well, tant pis. It is very nice though.
Wait a minute, it does have a French accent. The opening bars of ‘Blue Light’, with its octave spanning beeps, slow beats and melotronic electronics is very Gallic – Air-like. It is only when the guitars and glockenspiels join in that you are transported back to the bohemian back streets of Glasgow (not that I have ever been to Glasgow – this is artistic license on my part). Pleasant enough, no doubt, in a bleak yet beautiful way but nothing you couldn’t get elsewhere. It is when the random element of vocals are introduced that things get interesting.
The glock takes up the lead and a martial rhythm pulsates; a voice intones ‘It’s the French Quarter’ incessantly and hypnotically. Beneath, the melody skitters about, delicately yet robustly amid broken radios. Atmospheric stuff and strangely self-deprecating but still assuredly poppist and preparatory for ‘Shed Away’. This wonderful little number reverberates around an empty warehouse like a Jesus and Mary Chain track, but has the audacity to pepper it with rim shots and new romantic riffs, like some shoulder-padded feather cut caveman smacking bones together in a cave. ‘Uni’ also has that Snow Patrol post-rock pop feel, but is bereft of chorus and possessing a voice like Kevin Shields circa early MBV. The mix is marvellous too, giving each part breathing space and room to grow. Exhilaratingly bracing.
You might be thinking that the way I am banging on, these songs are quite lengthy. Not so; this is pocket post rock, each song being barely over three minutes. If they weren’t so complex, they’d be seen as pop perfection. But they are; TR has the trance-like vocals of a mystic on mushrooms, the naturalistic evolving melody of a free form jam and the accordion climax of… er… a morris dance? It still knows when to call it a day though. Closing fittingly with ‘Time To Leave’ sees them bring on the angel choir and slide guitars, echoing the legendary KLF for parodic bombast that fades rather than cuts out. Quite so.
In essence, the French Quarter do a good magpie job. MBV, Mogwai, Jesus and Mary Chain and Sigur Ros all go into the pot but what emerges is uniquely French Quarter. But not French. Short but not sharp, moody but not gloomy, pop but not pap, FQ manage to walk the line without having to compromise. Quite an achievement, n’est ce pas?
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