Review Summary: {knock knock} ‘Doof, who’s your favourite Irish band of all time?’ ‘Microdisney’ ‘You too!’ {door near rattles off its hinges}
Is there anything more satisfying in the music obsessive's life than unearthing a ‘missing link’ artist? You know the sort, those acts who feel like a natural evolutionary step between two or more scenes you always imagined were distantly related but couldn't quite fill in the hereditary tree for. In this respect Cathal Coughlan is a real find, his output spanning from lo-fi miserablist early '80s jangle all the way to industrial tinged/punk leaning ‘Manics-esque’ sloganeering rock and touching on pretty much everything that happened in between. His output released with his second band, The Fatima Mansions, covers the more abrasive and experimental end of the spectrum; from proto-Nine Inch Nails workouts to the sort of bizarre genre switching oddities J.G. Thrirlwell or Mike Patton would be proud of, it’s all there. As fascinating as it is hearing Coughlan unshackled, free to follow wherever his ears lead, it’s his early career as lead singer of the more conventional band unit Microdisney that impresses most of all.
A classic song writing partnership in the Morrissey/Marr tradition, Coughlan and guitarist Sean O’Hagan are a satisfying mix of the sweet and the sour. O’Hagan’s penchant for Brian Wilson style melodies and inviting guitar jangles help sweeten Coughlan’s bitter blue pills to the extent the listener mightn’t even notice all the darkness and cynicism they contain on first exposure. For a band labelled a pop act, ‘sophisti-pop’ even, it soon becomes evident that Microdisney are deeply subversive sorts; you certainly can’t imagine dear old Walt would have approved of the name association with his brand that’s for sure. The fact these lads hit an early ceiling to their success and deeply mistrusted the mechanisations of the music industry only adds to the feeling that here we have a band with tongues planted firmly in cheeks, fingers crossed behind their backs and a barely concealed anger burning behind their eyes. Yes, of course it was only a matter of time before they went behind their Virgin Record boss’s backs and printed a range of ‘Microdisney Are Shit' t-shirts in support of what was meant to be their breakthrough tour. Obscurity beckoned.
There’s always been a romantic notion Ireland is awash with thousands of talented musicians and song writers but in fact it can be hard to list more than ten or so that have gone on to be regarded as truly beloved acts, even less ones who truly embody the spirit of the country. Microdisney should have been added to this exclusive list; they resolutely don’t sound English, or British, or anything else other than sons of the Emerald Isle. On their debut release, the ultra sarcastically titled ‘Everybody is Fantastic’, they built up a richly evocative portrait of home. On follow up ‘A Clock Comes Down the Stairs’ the band relocate to the yuppiedom capital of London and unsurprisingly Cathal’s lyrics can’t help but betray the displeasure these newfound surrounds elicit in him. ‘Past’ cuts like a knife through the self satisfied nostalgic crowing of ‘Who won the war? Who ruled the world?’ with a dismissive ‘Well who cares?’. This ‘us and them’ feeling comes to a head on ‘Genius’ where Coughlan freely admits that he comes from ‘rocks and rain, where the people have no pride or hope’ and that the ‘new people’ that surround him in the ‘English toy town’ won’t help him.
All this cynicism could have resulted in a dispiriting trudge of an album if it wasn’t for the fact the band cook up such an inviting mix of warm instrumentation and that Cathal balances his dark lyrical impulses with a huge helping of humour and a penchant for grandiose dramatic storytelling. The breadth of the lyrics featured here push this release into the realms of the near-concept album as Coughlan fleshes out stories that seemingly take in huge swathes of either his own, or another character’s life. Make no mistake, this man's an expert at building up layer upon layer of imagery, delivering his tales of woe with a classic narrator’s tone. So as impressive as the music is here, it's important to remember that without the perfectly delivered vocals resting atop then all this meticulous song-craft would have effectively amounted to naught; f'sure, it's clear as an Irish summer morn that Coughlan's the star turn here.
It’s too late to pretend this band ever amounted to more than a footnote in the history of popular music but they’re a real fascinating fossil all the same. A grittier version of Prefab Sprout? Deacon Blue with a backbone and reason to exist? A U2 without the horrors of latter career malaise? The Smiths with Morrissey’s celebrity self absorption surgically removed? If you like the sound of any of that then these could be your boys.
