Review Summary: The kind of double album that will have you prancing around Stonehedge in your sleep.
Being British means a few things. You drink tea on a disturbingly regular basis. You wear sweaters at all times of year. You are fanatical about some odd sport called “football.” You may or may not require some heavy dental work. And if you play guitar and enjoy psychedelic rock, you are more likely than not a huge fan of Ray Davies, not to mention any number of scarf-wearing, mustachioed musicians. I cannot say for certain whether any of these things are true, but listening to Field Music’s third album,
Field Music (Measure), I find it hard not to. The brothers David and Peter Brewis craft impeccably refined, undeniably
British music, cribbing from any number of Anglo influences with all the pride of full-blooded Englishmen. It’s only been three years, but evidently the duo’s short-lived hiatus has resulted in a mammoth twenty-track record, one as ambitious in its scope as it is narrowed in its focus. That focus being, of course, to create the next XTC via ‘70s prog-rock album.
A song like the supremely bouncy “Effortlessly” or the jagged rock of ”All You’d Ever Need To Say” might fool listeners into thinking that Field Music have merely refined their power-pop aesthetic from 2007’s
Tones of Town, but cherry picking a few tunes here and there from what is undoubtedly an intimidating album would be doing the band a disservice. Despite its eminently poppy nature and the accessible way the brothers Brewis continually harmonize,
Measure is the kind of album that requires multiple listens to fully appreciate, a record that mixes David and Peter’s disparate natures into something that might be called prog-pop. It’s there in the dangerous opening lick of “In The Mirror,” where a threatening guitar riff raises the tension only to be deflated by the intensely jovial, intensely British pastoral jaunt of “Them That Do Nothing.” It’s an odd juxtaposition and one that immediately sets the tone for the rest of the album, a theme that can be succinctly summed up with one cliché: expect the unexpected.
Sure, there’s your typical XTC homage in the jittery “Each Time Is A New Time,” your odd hint of David Bowie in the title track, and the brothers do a damn fine John and Paul impression on their flawless harmonies, but
Measure slowly and surely develops into its own beast as the first disc melts into the second. The little things you may have passed over in your first cursory listen to things start to pop out. The sharp angles and meticulously designed jabs and fuzzy riffs of the brother’s preferred mode of expression, the guitar, begin to take on a life of their own. A song like “Clear Water” defies easy categorization, as it runs the gamut from straightforward pop to murky experimentalism with little to no self-consciousness, while a tune like “Let’s Write A Book” knows how to use the guitar to propel a song forward and not overwhelm it, instead coloring in the edges with a variety of hand claps, studio effects, and space-age synths.
But for all their musical exploration, the backbone of
Measure is that standard rock triptych, the guitar, bass, and drums, with an emphasis on GUITAR. It defines every song here, driving the rhythm, framing the brothers’ effortless harmonies, and creating riffs and passages often so deceptively mind-boggling that it’s hard to appreciate them the first time through. It’s what makes re-listening to
Measure so pleasant, when one can see the band’s craftsmanship in placing a gentle wisp of a tune like “Precious Plans” before the instrumental metamorphosis of “See You Later” or the way a song like “The Rest Is Noise,” built on a number of layers, eventually disintegrates into the smoldering ballad “Curves of the Needle,” everything resting on a foundation of superb guitar work.
It’s also, unfortunately, what makes the album’s running time such a tough thing to overcome, and while the band’s finely constructed songs always stand out on their own, over the course of a twenty-song record things tend to muddle together into a haze of guitar and quintessentially British harmonies. As a double album,
Measure lacks any concept or coherent instrumental theme (save maybe for the eternal importance of the guitar) to give it meaning, and thus makes what could have been two outstanding ten-song collections a rather staggering amount of material that too often fails to hold the listener’s long-term attention. It’s a shame, and really the only notable failing of
Measure, but it’s a big one. But for a double-album as immense as this is and with little no filler that one might expect from such a grand project, it’s a record that rewards its listener, especially if said listener is not averse to taking breaks and returning with a fresh head. Perhaps with some tea and crumpets.
