Review Summary: It takes me away.
Nostalgia is a powerful thing. It can be triggered any time, any place, by any thing. Smells, sounds, whatever. Mostly music…
especially music. You know what I mean. One note, one drum hit, one word. That’s all it takes to transport us back in time, to feel everything we felt in a certain moment all over again. That this is achievable simply by revisiting certain records is pretty fucking amazing. Then there’s a different kind, not nostalgia
per se but something similar. Records that evoke such strong imagery in our heads that we
feel like we’re in a time and place we’ve never actually been. Records like
After the Gold Rush,
Music Has the Right to Children or Bowie’s
Low. Milo Greene’s debut LP is just a few months shy of its second birthday but feels like it’s been here since the ’70s, lost somewhere in Laurel Canyon waiting patiently to be rediscovered.
A skinny brown haired boy stares through a window, transfixed, as two puppies wrestle on their bed of straw. ‘Son My Son’ is playing: ‘just remember the weight of your world’s only resting on me’
. “Daddy!” he squeals, tugging at a sleeve above his head as the black pup pins the brown on his back, “Daddy! That’s the one!”
The LA-based folk/pop quintet recall Buckingham/Nicks era Fleetwood Mac in both sound and setup. One tasteful drummer surrounded by four lead singers (three boys/one girl) who pass their instruments around at will, following the songs wherever they lead. In less capable hands this would likely degenerate into a clusterfuck of mismatched mediocrity. Not so here. Milo Greene have the talent to make it all work and then some. Lively bass and chiming clean guitars are everywhere, and then there are the
harmonies. God, I could go on about the harmonies. This is a lean record, no fat. It flies by in just over half an hour, its nine very pretty songs linked seamlessly by four wordless interludes.
The brown haired boy is sitting in the driveway, black dog by his side. “I think I’m in love, buddy”, he says, voice deeper now. “Should I go for it?” ‘Take a Step’ is playing: ‘soft has never felt so hard / your face in front of me / still I see we’re getting closer to what is unseen / so let down your guard’
. The black dog turns and licks the boy’s face, tail wagging cheerfully. The boy laughs. “That’s what I thought”.
Let’s revisit that nostalgia premise for a moment. Indulge me. Humour me. Just over a week ago I witnessed the death of my best friend and this record is the one thing I’ve clung hardest to for comfort. Is comfort the right word? Probably not. Maybe there is no right word. Point being, it’s all I can do lately to lay on my bed with just this music for company, replaying it over and over as I wander aimlessly through memories both made and borrowed, the lines between them blurring until there’s no line at all. This couldn’t have happened with any other record. It had to be this one. So many separate events had to align perfectly just so ‘Don’t You Give Up on Me’ would be playing at the moment he dragged himself into my bedroom and collapsed, betrayed by his fading body. That image of him laid out, legs splayed, as that song played is one that will haunt me until my dying day.
‘Don’t you give up on me,’ the band sang,
‘cos you’re all I got / this time won’t stop’. He looked up at me with pleading eyes. He knew. We both knew. Two hours later he was gone, taken by Death’s merciful needle.
The brown haired man bursts through the gate of his family home after six months abroad. He calls out loudly. The black dog comes running, slower now, grey hairs spreading across his chest. ‘Silent Way’ is playing: ‘when we’re older, can I still come over?’
The black dog jumps up, paws crashing into the man’s belly as he falls to the ground in fits of laughter.
These are gorgeous, gorgeous songs that evoke a simpler time. It’s there, captured in ‘Polaroid’; distant voices and laughter echoing from the past. Earthy, organic, beautiful. The sentiments within are uncomplicated and honest, if not a tad broad. Not dumbed down, mind, merely distilled down to their purest form. A solid outline inviting the listener to colour in the finer details. Perhaps that’s why they’ve been able to play the role they have for me. I’m by no means saying they can be all things to all people – for the most part the band stay within their wheelhouse of love and longing – but there’s an inherent
humanness here that is so relatable, so easy to find yourself in. Highlights? Plenty. ‘What’s the Matter’, ‘Don’t You Give Up on Me’, ‘Silent Way’ and ‘1957’ are all very very good songs. Then there’s ‘Autumn Tree’, frankly one of the single best songs I’ve heard in a good few years. That chord progression, those words, the
pain in the voices. Devastating. Perfect, in a hundred different ways.
Early June. The brown haired man is in the backyard digging beneath bare branches, earphones in. ‘Autumn Tree’ is on repeat: ‘is this my old shape / my mind is away / how long have you been gone? / and the cold winter’s aged the soft of your face and I can’t move on’
. Blisters are forming on his hands. He keeps digging. He digs and digs until the dirt and sweat and tears are all the same grimy mess.
If this reads as though I’m projecting my own meaning onto this music it’s because
of course I am. Sound in and of itself is nothing but the vibration of air molecules, only translated into musical feeling by connecting with the human brain. The onus is on us as listeners to open ourselves up and meet it halfway. Led Zeppelin were right when they said the song remains the same. It’s us who are in constant motion, our tastes shifting and morphing and mutating to suit our needs at any given time. It’s why some songs will fill our hearts immediately and others will take time to ‘click’. They’re simply waiting for the right moment to connect. Of course, more often than not this moment never comes. It’s not just a matter of right place/right time, but right place/right time/right song/right person. It’s why after dozens of listens ‘What’s the Matter’ is permanently engraved into my skull but I can barely recall a single note of ‘Cutty Love’. It’s not saying one is ‘better’ than the other, just more relevant to one listener at one moment in time. We take what we need, we discard the rest, and we move on. There’s plenty I’ll bring with me from
Milo Greene. New friends to walk with along life’s bumpy road. It’ll be far too bloody hard to visit them every day, but I’ll call on them from time to time. ‘Silent Way’ asks again, innocently:
‘when we’re older, can I still come over?’ Sure you can, pal. Bring a bottle.
The brown haired man pushes through the gate, unshaven, arms laden with the day’s catch. “The old boy will love these”. He pauses at the empty kennel, remembers. “Oh, right”. ‘Autumn Tree’ is playing again: ‘market morning sun / fish from an early hunt / I wait but you’re gone / linger on’
.
Already I can see this moment, this current burning need for these songs, fading in the rear-view mirror. Smaller and smaller it’ll become until it’s just a speck… and then it will be gone. Maybe. ‘Autumn Tree’ is on repeat again as I write this.
‘Linger on’.
Who am I kidding? Fuck it, just one more spin.
‘I can’t move on’.
