Review Summary: Why is this album not on some silly '500 greatest albums of all time' from some silly major publication?
When people think of great albums of the 90's, I suppose Arab Strap's 'Philophobia' doesn't bubble to the top of the list very often. Could it be Aidan Moffat's limited vocals? Sort of a lazy, tuneful spoken word - a gloomy Scottish "rapper" probably doesn't sound appealing to most people. Or could it be the painfully honest examination of the male condition? It's a pretty uncomfortable listen sometimes. Maybe it's the slow, bare bones mixture of a sprinkling of guitar, one or two other instruments used sparingly, and a simple molasses-like beat.
The truth is, it's probably something more people should listen to. You should give something a try where every song has some ridiculously brilliant musical moment. As said before, the primary weapon is a subpar voice. So how do you have a vocal impact? You let a female vocalist sing a (let's face it) slightly dirty, delicious verse, have a minute drum fill, cut the noise and swoop in clearly with a tiny shift in volume to make your drawl elevate the song (see 'Afterwards'). Slight cuts of off-kilter distortion complete the effect, on bedrock of impossibly deep drum strikes. You keep this all sounding so spacious, it might not even be there the gaps are so big.
Then there are Malcom Middleton's serpentine, alive guitar patterns. I suppose you could say they're simple. But they are as expressive as a smile, or a twitch of pain, or that common downturn of disappointment on a girl's face when you've said something stupid. His playing is drenched in sensitivity. The tone is so warm and sculpted, as if made of some warm clay. The bass is enormous, the sound of a car engine at night. The type of drive where you are alone in the car and the city lights are fading in your rear-view mirror after a night out - alone with your thoughts and too tired to over-analyse them.
Then there is the arc - the album starts with an angry breakup, a middle passage of tentative hope where our narrator attempts to do the right thing, fails and succeeds, deals with mortality, and another breakup. The end sees him contemplating the ridiculous nature of the big night out, self-loathing, and weakness. Things that most of us go through, told in such excruciating detail and with such unflinching honesty that we have to wince at the speakers.
I remember seeing Arab Strap at a university somewhere in Leeds. I think I accidentally burned a hole in the 100 year old dirty carpet with a cigarette, which was fitting for the band that documented pub romance like no other. People kept yelling for them to play 'New Birds', and they stubbornly refused. I suppose it's a curse putting together something so beautiful - people are always going to want it, in all its immediacy. It sums up everything that's great about this band - smooth bass, shimmering percussion and gentle drums. That voice setting the scene, your friend telling you about the difficulty of letting go. That reversal of the chords to remind you of a night accelerating, slightly out of control. The guitar looping out of the lines, woozily drunk and human. That cold break of nearly-silence, matching the lyrics, like a totally clear, snow burnt night. Then the molten, chunky finish of crushing drums and measured guitar, shattering into a triumphant shriek. I actually cannot decide which version I prefer, the violently turbulent performance on their incredible live document 'Mad for Sadness', or the mysterious floating outro at the end of this album's track, which is absent on the stage cut.
Other moments - the threadbare, drum machine driven 'The night before the funeral' that picks up into an insanely good New Orleans death march complete with immaculately framed horns. The swooping, giddy acoustic guitar of 'Not quite a yes' that sounds like watching a young couple dance for the first time, and getting lost in it. The sound of rain in 'Islands'. The drum snaps that break 'Packs of three' in half and introduce the glorious cello backing. The organ making a wall of tears in the dreary story of 'Soaps'. Single notes interspersed, on guitar or piano, that are perfectly placed. The spidery curls of guitar of 'My favourite muse', like smoke making cancerous ferns in the air. The devastating bleakness of those piano keys on at the end of album closer 'The first time you're unfaithful'.
The lyrics are unapologetically brutal - the narrator stopping to tell us he secretly stole a whiff of his lover's scent on his hands. The medical realities of bingeing, framed as harsh reality and not a gag in a stupid movie. The narrator admitting that funeral hymns made him think of his Elvis gospel albums. The inability to perform with his ex after she bought him drinks all night. No shameful truth is off limits, and this makes the moments when the narrator gets it right so much more endearing - when he intones "you'll know you did the right thing" in 'New Birds', it's another moment of heart rending beauty.
Does this make you feel something? There are no soaring big notes, no blistering solos. It's just a cohesive, sometimes ugly, sometimes unbelievably beautiful examination of what can be our reality at certain times in our life, whether we like it or not. Philophobia is defined as the fear of love or falling in love, and this record is the soundtrack to that state of being.
