Fundamental/Fundamentalism CD Review 19/05/06
Posted: Fri 19 May 2006, 10:54 pm
The soundtrack to our lives. That throwaway phrase, which once meant something, has become a hackneyed old chestnut in recent years. Therefore, it’s always something of a surprise when a truism reveals its power. My brother, the most beautiful and gentle spirit that I have ever known, bade a final goodbye to me a few desolate weeks ago. In my new-found state of personal chaos, I find the themes and preoccupations of the new Pet Shop Boys record bewilderingly apposite and intensely cathartic.
Undertakers, death and destruction, cemeteries, resurrectionists, psychological insanity, and the promise of a new day in heaven stamp the latest PSB era like a coroner’s report. Remarkably enough, there’s no maudlin self-pity to be found here. The loss is overpowering, debilitating, and eviscerating, but our heroes bear the burden with all the dignity of grief-stricken but determined pall bearers. Fundamental may be their commercial coffin, but it’s not going to fall on their account.
If bereavement and the ephemeral nature of existence pervade the album as droplets in a gentle graveyard mist, political commentary is never far from the upturned soil below. The satire revealed is both subtle and stinging. I’m With Stupid, the somewhat generic trailing single, possesses one of the most perfect lyrics of Neil Tennant’s career. The ferocious Integral is stridently caustic in its Orwellian overtones. The ID card debate in the UK is merely the starting point for Tennant’s biting deconstruction of the entire New Labour project. The brilliantly inspired Frankie Goes To Hollywood chants deep into the song’s black heart recall 1984 in more than mere spirit, an inspired touch of allegorical genius. The soaring somersaulting synths prior to the final glorious crescendo threaten to implode in a frenzy of bombastic hysteria, but Horn holds Chris Lowe’s thrilling orchestrations back just enough to keep things tastefully grotesque. The Performance pigs of 1991’s lavish stage show are invoked to dance around the totalitarian trough as Napoleon Blair utters his final approval. “Perfect.”
Yet, for all its undoubted highs, Fundamental is an uneven record. Psychological, a nondescript opener, takes flight only in its last third to reveal a shimmering soundscape rich in aural delight. That momentum is quickly lost, however, for The Sodom and Gomorrah Show reduces the tenor of the record to tacky glam disco. It starts well enough raising the spectre of Derek Jarman before descending into a cheesy crypt of fetid gorgonzola. The forced alliteration and wallflower vocals at the heart of the track make this the wimpiest of wig-outs.
Thankfully we’re back on track immediately with the achingly beautiful, if imperfect, I Made My Excuses and Left. Asylums never sounded so poignant. Classic kitchen-sink drama as profound existential angst. An airy ethereal accompaniment pervades the private personal sadness of sudden public rejection. Tennant recounts one of life’s defeats but resurrects himself for the fight vowing to face an uncertain future. The slightly pretentious lyric adds to the sense of Tennant as intellectual nerd, an inevitable but unwitting victim in an arena primed for more physically robust and streetwise protagonists.
The gloriously celestial Minimal’s light gossamer glaze reflects a temporary light on the passing of a brief moment and represents a crystalline peak in an otherwise dark journey through morbidity.
The brooding, saturnine heart of the record descends now to envelop the listener in a thick fog of troubled discomfiture. Numb, potentially a death-knell of the most gruesome kind, is lowered into the ground with genuine grace. Tennant’s ennunciation strips Diane Warren’s composition of its usual hysterical vocal and renders bare the desolate torment of bereavement. The communion bells and priestly chants of the dolorous overture subsume the listener in a funereal atmosphere that Horn directs with tactful aplomb. The orchestral stab prior to the final verse assails the listener like a grievous and suddenly recalled memory. Warren’s lyric is simple but powerful and captures the mental anguish of profound loss. While Tennant’s rendition is the mournful equivalent of dignified suffering, a Mariah Carey interpretation would likely see the American songstress collapse at the pulpit, burn the altar to the ground, and shatter the stained glass windows of St. Peters as a frenzied prelude to toppling dramatically into the freshly-dug grave before the descending casket. Thankfully, we’re spared that public ignominy and can all repose back to the house to the angelic air of God Willing.
Luna Park completes the twisted trilogy, a gentle gambol through the delusional theme park of life. The entertainment on show merely masks a deep sense of ennui and tense foreboding, and Tennant’s precision lyric observes temporary happiness doomed to disaster. The illusion of contentment is certain to pass, and our narrator is already glimpsing the grim realities and predicting, with the assistance of fortune tellers, the bad news to come.
Now, however, the standard begins to waver. Casanova In Hell sits incongruously on Fundamental and recounts a rather pointless tale. Given Tennant’s fabled history of metaphorical allusion, the title suggested something rather more interesting than the fading erection of a middle-aged man. Yet, there is metaphorical reference to be found underneath the casiotones. As Pet Shop Boys can no longer get it up the charts on a regular basis these days, Tennant and Lowe returned to their aural library and wrote their own tale of vindication with 2003’s PopArt. If that’s the imputation, it’s indeed queer that this particular song would undermine any hagiography, let alone discography.
Twentieth Century picks up the pace and is Tennant’s public admission that the Iraqi war was a calamitous mistake. However, his Prince-like staccato vocal grates and the earnest conclusions are too saccharine for comfort. The trend continues with the penultimate track. Indefinite Leave To Remain forces well-meaning political sentiment into an ostensibly intimate love letter. It’s too clumsy to work though the backing is magnificently sweeping in its expanse. It takes the grimly apocalyptic Integral to slam the door shut on any further syrupy notions.
The companion disc, Fundamentalism, features the usual plethora of soon-to-be-forgotten mixes as well as the notably indecorous ferret-wigged presence of Elton John. It also contains the glorious existential hymn, Fugitive, a coruscating paean to brotherly love and the tragic transcience of time. Subversive it may be at heart, but a literal interpretation is overwhelmingly distressing to my now overly-sensitive ears. Fugitive is the guard of honour as stairway to heaven, a celestial ray of sunlight searing through the clouds to confirm Tennant and Lowe’s pop immortality.
Free and released from the world… I’m really going to miss you.
Drico.
Undertakers, death and destruction, cemeteries, resurrectionists, psychological insanity, and the promise of a new day in heaven stamp the latest PSB era like a coroner’s report. Remarkably enough, there’s no maudlin self-pity to be found here. The loss is overpowering, debilitating, and eviscerating, but our heroes bear the burden with all the dignity of grief-stricken but determined pall bearers. Fundamental may be their commercial coffin, but it’s not going to fall on their account.
If bereavement and the ephemeral nature of existence pervade the album as droplets in a gentle graveyard mist, political commentary is never far from the upturned soil below. The satire revealed is both subtle and stinging. I’m With Stupid, the somewhat generic trailing single, possesses one of the most perfect lyrics of Neil Tennant’s career. The ferocious Integral is stridently caustic in its Orwellian overtones. The ID card debate in the UK is merely the starting point for Tennant’s biting deconstruction of the entire New Labour project. The brilliantly inspired Frankie Goes To Hollywood chants deep into the song’s black heart recall 1984 in more than mere spirit, an inspired touch of allegorical genius. The soaring somersaulting synths prior to the final glorious crescendo threaten to implode in a frenzy of bombastic hysteria, but Horn holds Chris Lowe’s thrilling orchestrations back just enough to keep things tastefully grotesque. The Performance pigs of 1991’s lavish stage show are invoked to dance around the totalitarian trough as Napoleon Blair utters his final approval. “Perfect.”
Yet, for all its undoubted highs, Fundamental is an uneven record. Psychological, a nondescript opener, takes flight only in its last third to reveal a shimmering soundscape rich in aural delight. That momentum is quickly lost, however, for The Sodom and Gomorrah Show reduces the tenor of the record to tacky glam disco. It starts well enough raising the spectre of Derek Jarman before descending into a cheesy crypt of fetid gorgonzola. The forced alliteration and wallflower vocals at the heart of the track make this the wimpiest of wig-outs.
Thankfully we’re back on track immediately with the achingly beautiful, if imperfect, I Made My Excuses and Left. Asylums never sounded so poignant. Classic kitchen-sink drama as profound existential angst. An airy ethereal accompaniment pervades the private personal sadness of sudden public rejection. Tennant recounts one of life’s defeats but resurrects himself for the fight vowing to face an uncertain future. The slightly pretentious lyric adds to the sense of Tennant as intellectual nerd, an inevitable but unwitting victim in an arena primed for more physically robust and streetwise protagonists.
The gloriously celestial Minimal’s light gossamer glaze reflects a temporary light on the passing of a brief moment and represents a crystalline peak in an otherwise dark journey through morbidity.
The brooding, saturnine heart of the record descends now to envelop the listener in a thick fog of troubled discomfiture. Numb, potentially a death-knell of the most gruesome kind, is lowered into the ground with genuine grace. Tennant’s ennunciation strips Diane Warren’s composition of its usual hysterical vocal and renders bare the desolate torment of bereavement. The communion bells and priestly chants of the dolorous overture subsume the listener in a funereal atmosphere that Horn directs with tactful aplomb. The orchestral stab prior to the final verse assails the listener like a grievous and suddenly recalled memory. Warren’s lyric is simple but powerful and captures the mental anguish of profound loss. While Tennant’s rendition is the mournful equivalent of dignified suffering, a Mariah Carey interpretation would likely see the American songstress collapse at the pulpit, burn the altar to the ground, and shatter the stained glass windows of St. Peters as a frenzied prelude to toppling dramatically into the freshly-dug grave before the descending casket. Thankfully, we’re spared that public ignominy and can all repose back to the house to the angelic air of God Willing.
Luna Park completes the twisted trilogy, a gentle gambol through the delusional theme park of life. The entertainment on show merely masks a deep sense of ennui and tense foreboding, and Tennant’s precision lyric observes temporary happiness doomed to disaster. The illusion of contentment is certain to pass, and our narrator is already glimpsing the grim realities and predicting, with the assistance of fortune tellers, the bad news to come.
Now, however, the standard begins to waver. Casanova In Hell sits incongruously on Fundamental and recounts a rather pointless tale. Given Tennant’s fabled history of metaphorical allusion, the title suggested something rather more interesting than the fading erection of a middle-aged man. Yet, there is metaphorical reference to be found underneath the casiotones. As Pet Shop Boys can no longer get it up the charts on a regular basis these days, Tennant and Lowe returned to their aural library and wrote their own tale of vindication with 2003’s PopArt. If that’s the imputation, it’s indeed queer that this particular song would undermine any hagiography, let alone discography.
Twentieth Century picks up the pace and is Tennant’s public admission that the Iraqi war was a calamitous mistake. However, his Prince-like staccato vocal grates and the earnest conclusions are too saccharine for comfort. The trend continues with the penultimate track. Indefinite Leave To Remain forces well-meaning political sentiment into an ostensibly intimate love letter. It’s too clumsy to work though the backing is magnificently sweeping in its expanse. It takes the grimly apocalyptic Integral to slam the door shut on any further syrupy notions.
The companion disc, Fundamentalism, features the usual plethora of soon-to-be-forgotten mixes as well as the notably indecorous ferret-wigged presence of Elton John. It also contains the glorious existential hymn, Fugitive, a coruscating paean to brotherly love and the tragic transcience of time. Subversive it may be at heart, but a literal interpretation is overwhelmingly distressing to my now overly-sensitive ears. Fugitive is the guard of honour as stairway to heaven, a celestial ray of sunlight searing through the clouds to confirm Tennant and Lowe’s pop immortality.
Free and released from the world… I’m really going to miss you.
Drico.
