Review Summary: Take a New York noir story and splatter it with shades of blue and purple
Wooden Boy plays, ad infinitum, in the heart and mind of a sharply dressed urbanite. Suited and booted up to the nines, he skulks through the shadows of the city with purpose, like a tom cat, seeking out the beckoning illumination of the happening-est bar around. Dry ice laps at his ankles. Heads turn as he steps inside. They can feel it too; the whomping saxophones, the rolling snare and wailing organ. The grooves bandy from person to person and will each of them into frenzied, united energy. It’s instinctual.
Take a New York noir story and splatter it with shades of blue and purple, and you’ll get a good idea of the style that The Cactus Channel employ. They fuse the slick style of 20th century funk and soul with fresh, youthful flourishes, even flirting with the expanse of cinematic structures. ‘Who is Walt Druce?’, for instance, bobs on a chipper bassline with tenor sax and trumpets bellowing together on top, whilst the drums step up to fill in the empty space with frenetic fills. It’s what you’d expect to play as someone walks nonchalantly away from an explosion, or as the Ocean’s crew coolly relieve a casino of a few million bucks.
It’s not skyscraper abseiling all the way through. The dectet (count ’em – there’s ten) are able to pace themselves intelligently, each providing their own discrete touches subtly enough that at times you’ll forget just how many gears are grinding. On ‘How Did This Happen?’, the short brass bursts faintly recede, leaving the electric guitar and bass to breathe their smoke, before gradually accumulating once more into neon-lit ruckus. As serviceable as the group are with apexes, though, their musical dexterity and maturity is displayed on the restrained ‘X-Ray Bear’ – the drums are stouter, fortified by stop-start bass, shakers and a cowbell, but the sax is loosened up and given free, unshackled roam.
Just as with The Cactus Channel’s classic/contemporary synthesis, the juxtaposition of hushed and heavy is more than amply handled. The pomp of closing ‘Black Flag and Lady Bountiful’, only befitting of a grand finale, reaches post-rock levels of catharsis. Similarly, it begins without arousing any suspicion – slow electric strums, a loungey 3/4 beat and wispy organ – all the necessary ingredients for after-hours easy listening. The slinking saxophones are the magnets that move the iron filings into magnificent shapes, luring them towards surges of chroma. The false finish, a blink-of-an-eye moment in the context of the whole album, goes a long way in proving that funk can be as exhilarating as anything.
