Review Summary: An antiderivative.
Each listen of
Chamomile invokes something new. Perhaps that's because so little of the album feels all that memorable, but Ben Stewart gives me hope for the future of the homegrown singer-songwriter. Which isn't to argue that nothing of Slowly Slowly's debut strikes me as distinct or notable (indeed, far from it), just that their potential precedes their output thus far in their career.
Webbed between the band's unmistakable alt-rock roots, and an emo- and pop punk-inspired aesthetic, there exists a meticulous approach to songwriting. Just like a certain other band obscured too far beneath the foreground of an emerging Melbourne punk scene (see: Ceres), and indeed at times too unlike their more successful contemporaries, most of whom have mastered an attractive brashness, Slowly Slowly’s approach to songwriting is thoughtful. Sometimes a little too careful, a little too well-considered, and as a result too void of surprise. But the band maintain a romantic wit with impressive restraint.
Chamomile as such exudes an undeniable charm.
One such example of the band’s too rigid approach is that of ‘PMTWGR.’ At least a little ironic considering its title has the most potential to offend, the song embodies an oft returned to formula. A spacious chord progression beckons a series of soft high-hat flourishes, exploding into an effective common time beat, building towards a second, more melodic guitar and slight instrumental break, foreshadowing its own repetition as a second verse and chorus, each with a vocal performance more impassioned than the last, stroll into the song’s bridge and final chorus, erupting into the album’s next affair, and round we go. It's exhausting in its predictability, tiring in its rigidity. In all fairness, though, I do like both of these songs: the former is an endearing ode to the women in Ben's life, and the latter, ‘Black Confetti,’ boasts one of
Chamomile’s stickiest refrains. It sounds like the kind of thing one sings to himself in the shower before deciding its good enough to write a song around. I suppose to some extent this works to the band's advantage, highlighting an attractive capacity for spontaneous reflection; however, in turn, it makes obvious the drabness that sometimes encircles it.
As I said, though, I do like these songs. I do like
Chamomile. I like it quite a bit. Ben's voice is just about the dreamiest. Opener 'Elbows,' brief, is contemplative and dream-like. Its soft, muted chords invoke the suspended tick of a clock on that wall, off-white. Ben hovers over and around the dissonant twinkle of the piano's interweaving melodies. 'Chamomile,' the title track, is as warm as its subject-matter, characteristic of most of the album's genial reflections. 'New York, Paris' is a dreamer's anthem, a reflection on the limits of potential -- its endearing, bordering celestial ambition, is comforting. You'll feel trapped now and again. It'll happen. You're not alone, though. I'll be there with you. You're not alone.
Chamomile swoons -- it endears -- it sings of itself to itself. It finds comfort in that. It wants you to find comfort in that.
In large part, the detached weariness with which I hold Slowly Slowly (for whom, hidden within parenthesis, I have a remarkable adoration) spawns from the fear that, as is common within this scene, their music will lose its power to straddle the fine line between a sort of strict, musical progression, and the impassioned hunger of the once starving artist. One exception, though: it's good, and I like it.
Chamomile invokes something special each listen. It's good, it's refreshing, and that's all that matters.
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