Caught in the Carousel

The Good, the Bad, & the Queen

The Good, the Bad, & the Queen
Virgin

the good, the bad, and the queen

"Come the day/You see the sun/Hit the arch/The history song..." So sings Damon Albarn's coarse and blistered voice, emerging in a faint and dusted way, like pale and dying fire barely keeping its flame. His noticeably weary, half-affected manner of sing-speak skirts tunefully along with a buoyant, almost flamenco-like guitar figure, and is then encircled by a winsome and wheezing organ, a reserved and posturing bass line, and a lush, concerted wave of ooh's and ah's.

This is the remarkably confident beginning of a record from a band that is definitively bereft of title, a band that has so vehemently denied their even having a birthright or proper name, that I'm stymied as to what to call them. Emphatically, and that is to say, beyond question, their name is not the Good, the Bad and the Queen—though that is the admitted title of the album. Irrespective of group identity, this anonymous collective is comprised of some impressive individuals from various parts of various scenes. Chief among them is Damon Albarn of Blur and Gorillaz-fame, Paul Simonon of the Clash, Simon Tong of the Verve (one of those instantaneous, blink-and-you'll-miss-them Britpop one-hit-wonders), and Tony Allen of Fela Kuti and Africa 70. Additionally, the production was steered by Danger Mouse, making this a delicious throwback, a modern equivalent to the now defunct concept of the "super group," like Damn Yankees for the thick-rimmed readers of Pitchfork media (and this is not to be lithely taken as an endorsement of either Pitchfork or the "Nuge"). Initially begun as a solo record, the sounds which form the whole of the album all wonderfully congeal and pull from a vast and stunning array of influences, conjuring the ghosts of dub, old music hall, soul, punk, Britpop, folk, electronic and lounge—striking an altogether perfect, tenuous balance between Albarn's Blur and Gorillaz (more texturally adventurous than the former, more seemingly organic than the latter). Despite the allusions and obvious nods of the hat, something distinctly Anglican is happening here. The album is said to revolve around Albarn's impressions of English life, a continuation of themes previously explored on Blur's Park Life (I simply cannot attest to this claim, given my relative dislike of their music).

Concept albums are generally the bane and ire, the point of absolute derision for anyone remotely interested in music, but this album bears a concept that isn't taken literally in practice; detailing the ineptitudes, improprieties and complacency of an entire society, cataloguing whatever faults or favors you find between their gates, is a task too large and laggard for a man who routinely plays with a virtual band. To much relief, Albarn's focus and study of being English isn't so much informed by the iniquities which beset its people, but more the feeling and meaning of belonging to a certain place in a certain time, viewing it and its history reflexively, conveying the impressions his land of origin have left upon his head. As I am willfully ignorant of English practice and region, I cannot verify whether or not these songs actually relate to being English or (in particular) the area of West London. I can, however, aver that the matter is inconsequential--a bored, immaterial bit that in no way interferes with the kaleidoscopic wonder of this record or the lusting spaces it creates between its songs.

"80s Life" is probably the tune that bears the most resemblance to its dear departed sibling, Blur…making vague aural allusions to both Eno's "Cindy Tells Me" and Bowie's "Drive-in Saturday," replete with bright and sonorous Andrew Sisters backing vocals. It has a uniquely maritime feel to it, as if the limbs and head were submerged against the crest of an immense, unfathomably large wave--by the time the sweeping chorus carries in, your inert and lifeless frame is vaguely swaying like flotsam in the tide.

The entire album drags such wonderful reactions from the listener, and its sequencing is indelible. Its thoughtfully cohesive, ebb-and-wind structure makes for an unmistakable listening experience. On close, clinical inspection each tune bears out, contributing necessarily to the larger whole. It thankfully lacks any obvious, obnoxious filler-material, and unfolds quite nicely. Some other tracks bear mention and stand out as obvious favorites, for me at least.

"Three Changes" (with its sumptuous and jittery jazz beat, the snare nervously skipping circles around itself as Albarn's voice echoes from a dark and distant hall), is particularly evocative. "Kingdom of Doom" has small percussive hits which scuttle like spiders across a hardwood floor, eventually collapsing inwardly and spiraling out in hammered fists and piano chords, dulcet chimes and ambient hiss. "Nature Springs" would not be inappropriately placed on an Air album, imbued with a particularly delicate, almost translucent melody. "Everyone's a submarine, looking for a dream far away" Albarn sings, amidst the vertiginous whirl of hollow beeps, the slight and lurching drone of a viola bouncing off the reverb-soaked guitar and stop-start beat.

An inalienable sense of discovery pervades the entire album, traces its trail with an almost predacious and studied eye. Every impeccably layered track holds some great reward, and the indefatigable fun lies in wading through it. The record works, principally, because it pulls from the greater resources of each respective member—and watching their sundry elements teem and join together is incredibly fulfilling. An intelligent, vivacious and surprisingly intricate offering that is recommended heartily to anyone with ears to hear it.

—Brandon DiSabatino