Review Summary: Dust off the shelf, resurrect valentino
If my notes are correct, Long Fin Killie are a Scottish band from the 90s. If my ratings-in-chronological-order are correct, that was a bloody good time to be a Scottish band. Heck, look at the legacy of this era’s cult heroes, whether glum trailblazers of melancholic musing under the Chemikal Underground label (The Delgados, Arab Strap, Mogwai) or those campus sweatercore teddies Belle & Sebastian, or even, er, Travis! This scene was a lifeline for British indie still nursing the hangover of Britpop. So, where do Long Fin Killie fit in this picture? Well, regardless of the calibre of those aforementioned, the Killie’s unique blend of pre-crescendo reliant post-rock tension, social conscious literary prose, and an absolute mastering of atmospheric holy-*** insane instrumentation saw them a shining light even beyond their counterparts. Despite their impressive unorthodox, their legacy is minimal. Long Fin Killie are
so under-discussed compared to their counterparts that googling vocalist Luke Sutherland will list his contributions as: first, occasional violinist for Mogwai, then, author; then, member of Long Fin Killie.
If a classic album releases in a forest and no one’s around to hear it etc; etc.
On Valentino, elegance and chaos contrast in binary. There’s a rhythmic ebb and flow through each composition, pairing tracks of fierce immediacy with those of bitter melancholy. The opening pair “Godiva” and “Hands and Lips” pierce through with a wild urgency; Luke Sutherland’s vocals an uncomfortable strain, as a repeating bass groove grinds into ears-expectation and rarely diverts. It’s a hypnotic trance, entirely intoxicating; a style the band had perfected. Yet despite this instinctive pull, there’s a mathematical certainty to the album's pacing, a statement of the more minimal ethos they embraced since their unrestrained debut. It’s more assured, sparse within its chaos. The softer cuts feel almost empty - the words delivered in a whisper, the music a haunting drone, deceptively masterful. It’s the perfect backbone for Sutherland’s unique narratives. The tension on Valentino is thick as good gravy, an uncanny wry spin on 90s post-rock. It’s sounds as if John Carpenter swapped Hollywood for Indie Rock.
Since Long Fin Killie, Sutherland has penned a few novels, and his literary skill is evident throughout the album’s semi-conceptual narrative. As with Houdini, Sutherland’s focus is tales of racism and sexism, now with a greater emphasis on the latter. Sutherland is well versed in negative perception as an outsider - Gay, Black, adopted by English parents to a remote Scottish town. In an article he writes “denim became my armour. I buried my head in books”. These books, of local histories, mythology and science helped find perspective in a fragmented world of culture, nationality and injustice. He ponders why those, in his working-class town of Scotland, “so acquainted with the trauma of being trampled underfoot, so quick to savage me?”.
This is why despite Sutherland’s emphasis on mythical tales and pop-culture characters, Valentino packs an emotional weight. The anger and passion tears through each separate perspective we receive - whether the jarring discriminator, as seen on “Kitten Heels” or the emasculate victim on “Valentino”. Tales of the bigot
and the othered. Perspective is lent to some of the more reprehensible types, uncomfortably on point and almost hard to stomach. Through this character profiling, we discover criticism held by Sutherland of a society happy to savage - “Matador thrown, gored wide open / A belly burst flows full of wine / Alcoholic flair for porno / Kills the instincts every time / Bloodsport, bondage, booze, and babes / Every inch a macho swine” – It’s metaphorical, mythical satire as a means of discussing a Britain more concerned with hard-man football types than much else entirely. As on theme, it’s unlike anything other.
Writing about an album like this is hard. It’s an all time favourite of mine but has withered to a footnote within a scene many remember fondly. If there’s any life in this baby, let it be heard! Valentino is one of the greatest albums of all time. It’s immense, cathartic, sardonic, glum, (unorthodox, again) and it flows ***ing perfectly. It’s a whole host of adjectives that I’m sure Sutherland has mastered better than I – and it’s nowhere to be seen. On a different day, in a different time. I guess that’s the joy and misery in dusting off these older albums; the excitement of discovery, then the realisation that those fools in the past didn’t make the obvious classic an obvious classic. As it is though, relish in the fact that this album exists. Do it. Relish.
