A month or so back, a friend kindly lent me a CD devoted to ‘Modern Folk’, which turned out to be a tedious disappointment. Although the record had a couple of gems on it (Final Fantasy’s ‘Ballad of Win and Regine’, an odd psychological contemplation of the couple behind The Arcade Fire, was slight but lovely), the record was mostly unspeakably dull (with Anthony and The Johnsons’ contribution as numbingly somnambulist as the enemies of folk music would have you believe). But what struck me about it was that despite all the plinky acoustic-ness, strange accents and reverential hush of it all, there was almost no feeling that this was folk music in any meaningful sense at all. Folk should all be about suppression of the individual ego and the celebration of community spirit, and this polished, artful compilation was completely free of anything of the sort. It was essentially boring rock music, played really quietly.
I mention all of this to set up the contrast between the pristine deadness of ‘Modern Folk’ and the scratchy vitality of We Aeronauts‘ beguiling little record. Everything about it is rough-hewn: the drums are sometimes out of time, the lead singing is often approximate and the mix sounds like it was carried out by an amiable wally who has knocked it off in hour after overdosing on the scrumpy.
And the correct response to all this should be: Who Cares? Because the Aeronauts have written some infectious old-timey songs, they play their instruments with gusto, and above all, they sound like they thoroughly like each other. The sheer spirit of good feeling that comes billowing out of the stereo is reason enough to buy this record, particularly in these clammy, snappish times.
‘Boatswain’s Cry’ is a romantic sea shanty which breathes the same salty air as Dylan’s ‘Boots of Spanish Leather’, with the end of the return journey more in the narrator’s mind than his destination. Piano, accordion and fiddle all jostle good-naturedly for space and Anna Wheatley’s spirited, wandering backup vocals are a joy.
‘The House on Ash Tree Lane’ has an insistent backbeat reminiscent of The Teardrop Explodes ‘Reward’ and the trading of lead vocals, sometimes within the space of a line, is a clever, original touch. Extra colour is provided by some gloriously ill-disciplined trumpet and the chorus melody is now on continuous play in my head, and has been for a week.
Centrepiece of the record is the splendid ‘Chalon Valley House Band’ an almost painfully nostalgic hymn to getting it together in the country. I love the almost washboard twang of the bass, the cheek of the melodeon and contrasting shyness of the banjo, which peeks out from behind the sofa from time to time before going AWOL for bars on end, like a nervous moggy. Heck, I love it all. It’s not so much about the details of the soujourn, lovingly described though these are, but rather a celebration of the intense friendship and discovery the musicians clearly experienced there. Like Jean de Florette, another wanderer in the French countryside, they have cultivated the authentic.