One thing you can say about Lee Christian: he covers the bases. Many regular Oxford gig-goers will recognise him as the strutting super-ego of veteran punk-rockers Smilex, but on this new project he’s gone decidedly low key. No, strike that, he’s gone subterranean, a benign Gollum lurking underground while a troupe of his favourite hobbits play twinkly, amiable folk music to each other on the village green above his burrow.
Okay, I might be stretching the metaphor a little too far. Christian sings on the majority of tracks and plays a host of instruments, while finding time to do the engineering and cover design, but the overall impression remains of a musician happy to let others share the limelight, and the result is a cheerful, relaxed record in which most contributors emerge with credit.
Unfortunately, the record opens with two weak numbers which may put off less dedicated listeners than your reviewer. ‘The Failed Escape’ is sunk by a disgusting, repeated discord from Luke Dunstan’s acoustic guitar and some phoned-in French ennui courtesy of Dear City’s Camille Baziadoly. In her main project, she is a characterful and evocative singer, but here she simply sounds bored and boring. Grace Williams’ vehicle ‘Desert Music’ is trite and a trudge.
Things come together on ‘Hey, Icarus!’, a warm, fuzzy jam track, in which Christian’s late-Dylan croon meshes sweetly with Williams’ precise soprano, the duo underpinned by Abi Spiller’s drowsy organ chords. ‘Protest Song’ chunters about vicars and pols, but no genuine outrage can be allowed to sour the mood of Sunday afternoon bonhomie, the music a pleasing jumble of guitar picks and fluttering flutes.
‘Kitten’ is a delightful parting song, a Brief Encounter for mellowing punks set at the end of a Dorset pier, and featuring a rather good piano and guitar outro (it sounds as if Duane Allman and Eric Clapton had sunk another barrel of Watney’s and decided to have another go at the coda to Layla). The horn section of Rob Digweed and Paul Eros adds a welcome touch of Motown soul.
A whiff of menace is allowed in on the tense, piano-driven Mule’s Hoof, with Liam Ings Reeves contributing his trademark growl to the refrain, but the enduring tone of the album is respectful, good-mannered collaboration, egos left at the door, and though it’s not a ground-breaking record, I’m very glad the Club is out there, taking it easy for all us sinners.