Category Archives: The Cardigans

Formerly Much-Liked Welsh Rock Band PWNed By Bobblehead Predator

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Posted by SoC contributor Masticator

A friend of mine just called and asked if I wanted to see Manic Street Preachers in London next month. (The friend and the call are both real, by the way, and not just contrived into existence for the purpose of having this blogpost hung on them. The only part that isn’t really real is the “just”, because obviously it’s taken some time to compose the post, source pictures and so on. I’ve left it there for the sense of immediacy it confers. But I don’t want Shades Of Caruso to face accusations of lacking authenticity. There really is a friend, and he really did call me.)

Anyway, a friend of mine just called and asked if I wanted to see Manic Street Preachers in London next month, and I surprised both of us with the vehemence of my refusal. At one point in my life I would have dropped everything to attend one of the band’s gigs; indeed, between the spring of 1994 and the summer of 1996, I saw them a total of six times. Three times before Richey Edwards’s disappearance and three after, including Edwards’s last gig and their first show as a three-piece (supporting the Stone Roses at Wembley Arena). But now… I believe I actually used the words “You couldn’t pay me to see the Manics.”

So why is this? They were my favourite band in my late teens and early twenties, so even if their recent recordings haven’t exactly given me the Welsh horn, there should be a certain nostalgia value in seeing them live. Although they’re promoting their new material, the setlist will include plenty of old favourites for the fans, right? I couldn’t be less interested if you told me Ocean Colour Scene were the support act and threw in a copy of Kula Shaker’s Greatest Hits.

Why? Because of the new single – and I’m physically cringing as I type this title – “Jackie Collins Existential Question Time”.


I still rate The Holy Bible as one of my favourite albums. All four Manics unarguably hit a creative peak with the 1994 record: lyricists Edwards and Nicky Wire mined a seam of raw, confessional/political poetry combined with a literary quality not evident in pop music since the heyday of the Clash; songwriters and chief musicians James Dean Bradfield and Sean Moore pummelled the senses with ominous riffs, disconcerting rhythmic changes and thunderous beats. It was, and remains, an astonishing major-label release.

Either side of THB, the polished, more radio-friendly rock of Gold Against The Soul and Everything Must Go brought the band’s passion, integrity and songwriting nous to the charts – the albums contain most of the Manics’ biggest hits and best pop songs, while never less than fiercely intelligent. Their debut Generation Terrorists is mainly fuelled by angst and bravado, and certainly lacks much in the way of musicianship, but it still has a few great moments (“You Love Us”, “Motorcycle Emptiness”). However, it’s been downhill ever since 1998’s This Is My Truth Tell Me Yours, and “Jackie Collins Existential Question Time” marks a nadir.


In the early days, detractors sneered that the Manic Street Preachers were the worst kind of pseudo-intellectuals, using big words that they didn’t fully understand to show off and living up to the “preacher” part of their name. While it’s true that their lyrics are often awkward and make little sense at first glance (leading to countless “magnolia despair tumbles beneath basketball jumpsuit vegetable misery”-style parodies), fans pored over them and discovered – especially in the Edwards days – they were allusive, literary, even erudite, betraying the lyricists’ sharp intellects.

But surely even fans can’t defend bloody “Jackie Collins Existential Question Time”. The title is the worst kind of sixth-form non-profundity (the 40ish band members don’t even have the excuse of callow youth any more), with the use of “existential” particularly heinous. Its clever-clever juxtaposition of lowbrow and highbrow subjects is intensely irritating, not least because it’s hard to believe any of the band would actually read a Collins novel. Also because it has nothing to do with the song itself, which seems to be a reactionary rant about the supposed coarsening of society, with some nonsense about the marital fidelity of Catholics and the chorus a repetition of the question, “Mummy, what’s a sex pistol?”

“Your Love Alone Is Not Enough”, the lead single from the Manics’ otherwise unlistenable last album Send Away The Tigers, employed the Cardigans’ Nina Persson on vocals (it was almost as if they were trying to win me personally back as a fan). Although it did go on a bit, it was a decent track with a big chorus that harked back to the Everything Must Go period. “JCEQT” is a screechy, repetitive nonentity of a song whose aluminium-y production sets my teeth on edge. I gather the new material, including this song, uses lyrics left behind by Edwards (who has been declared legally dead). Perhaps there’s a reason they weren’t used in the intervening 14 years.

Manic Street Preachers seem to have reached that period of their career where every album is hailed by critics as a “return to form”, which is a pretty obvious journalistic reduction of “Bloody hell, are they still going? Can anyone remember their last album? Fuck it – let’s just say this album’s their best one since that really successful one they did.” I seriously doubt whether there’s any form to return to. On the evidence of “Jackie Collins Existential Question Time”, Wire’s and Bradfield’s breaks to record hugely underwhelming solo albums didn’t recharge any creative batteries, and if the rest of the album sounds like the lead single, you might be better off with a good book. Or even a bad book.

Hipster Douchebag Music Recommendation Of The Week Month Quarter: “Bear On The Beach” by A Camp

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When I wrote about the Cardigans last year, I remarked on how the band’s creative peak coincided with diminishing sales, and concluded that it was because their last two albums – while compelling, glorious and career-defining – were unable to find a commercial niche. And if a pop band like the Cardigans isn’t marketable – not thrilling or ringtone-friendly enough for the kids, not “authentic” or “classic” enough for £50 Man, and nowhere near hip enough for those influential, tastemaking hipster douchebags – there is surely little hope of commercial success for Nina Persson’s side project, A Camp.

A Camp’s self-titled 2001 debut is often described as “country” or “country-tinged”, and that’s not a genre that gets much exposure outside specialist US media. This description overstates the case somewhat, though, and the single “I Can Buy You” surely proves that “harmonica” and “country” are not necessarily synonymous.

This sprightly tale of a sugar mommy trying to hold on to a callow young lover is one thing country almost never is: it’s arch. The Cardigans are sometimes witty, sometimes knowing, sometimes playful, but their lyrics are usually heartfelt. A Camp has given Persson the opportunity to play around with characters, telling stories at one remove from the personal. In the album’s opener “Frequent Flyer”, she slyly claims “I’m a frequent flyer/A notorious liar” as if it were a disclaimer for all the porkies she is about to tell.

Despite being a little doomy in places (it was co-produced by Mark Linkous of doomy doomsters Sparklehorse), A Camp is not hugely different from a Cardigans record. The relentless chugging rhythms of “Hard As A Stone” are reminiscent of “My Favourite Game”, while the atmospheric ballads “Song For The Leftovers” and “Silent Night” wouldn’t sound out of place on Gran Turismo or Long Gone Before Daylight. For new album Colonia, Persson has recruited husband and former Shudder To Think guitarist Nathan Larson to accompany her, and the result is significantly less doomy. Although spotted with vague lyrical references to human beings behaving like dumb animals – ie killing each other, a lot – it has a sunny sheen that makes it irrepressibly uplifting.

The bleakness of the lead single’s lyrics, which suggest that although religion is often responsible for conflict love has been the cause of far more human pain, is offset by the crystalline chords and jaunty beats, not to mention Persson’s unmistakably pure vocals. (I like the video too, which rather than being a winking parody, a smartarse 2009 idea of what 1970s music TV was like, is done with clear-eyed earnestness, believably corny effects and an authentic lack of cuts.)

Elsewhere on Colonia the influence of 1960s girl-pop is obvious in the handclap-heavy “Here Are Many Wild Animals” and the simple, buoyant piano-chord progression of “I Signed The Line”. Although it’s no more a country record than A Camp is, the album occasionally puts me in mind of Dolly Parton (that poppiest of country artists) as well as folk singer Sandy Denny. “Golden Teeth And Silver Medals”, Persson’s duet with Nicolai Dunger, has echoes of “Silver Threads And Golden Needles” (a song recorded by both Parton and Denny) and “Islands In The Stream”:

Golden teeth and silver medals
Beauty mark and scars
That is what we got
Raindrops in a reservoir
And minutes in a jar
That is what we got

To my mind Colonia’s standout song is “Bear On The Beach”, whose sombre, wintry air recalls Angelo Badalamenti’s superlative Twin Peaks soundtrack. While a meditative Persson sings mournfully of Iris, someone who has evidently grown tired of the constant battle that is life, the twinkly toy piano contrasts with a creepily inexorable bassline, evoking a sort of uncertain serenity, a calm assailed by doubt and fear.

It seems someone thinks that the song’s ominous tone, imagery of islands and bears and oceans, and themes of isolation conjure up visions of a popular ABC time-travelly drama series that Shades Of Caruso may have mentioned once or twice.

So Mad, These Men!

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Mad Men has been screening on BBCs 4 and 2 for a couple of weeks now, and other than the odd rare comment about it being slightly obvious, the responses have been overwhelmingly positive. Most critics are besotted with the show, while some (Kathryn Flett in particular) are pledging their ovaries. We maintain a more objective view of it. Having watched three episodes during the original American run we were not hooked quickly enough, and it fell by the wayside, despite the critical reaction there being as rapturous as it is over here. Some of our complaints were niggling. On a surface level Canyon finds John Hamm somewhat oily (I’m agnostic), while I find Christina Hendricks’s transformation from her previous attractive self in Firefly into a pinched and terrifying fascimile of such in this to be somewhat disconcerting (see below; something about her has changed, and it’s not the hair or the startling boobies).


However, both of us agree that the dialogue is not as great as has been asserted by the critical monolith, ranging as it does from the good to the cringe-inducingly anvilicious. Quick example: when Don’s wife Betty starts to get numb shakyhands that prevent her from putting her own make up, the wife of Don’s boss, Mona, helps her out, and mid-lipstick application says, “Look at those lips! I bet it’s not hard for you to hold onto a man like that,” to which Betty replies, “It’s hard to hold onto anything right now with the children and running the house.” Plus, you know, the fact that she has terrible terrible shakyhands. They make it hard for her to “hold” things. In case you hadn’t noticed.

Having come across many complaints that Lost is badly written over the last few days (including being told to my face by someone just a few hours ago that they no longer trust my judgement any more because I love that lovely lovely show), I’m especially annoyed to find this show getting universal praise when scenes as bad as that are getting a free pass. That said, many people whose opinion we respect says that it’s worth sticking with, so we definitely will, but we’re hoping that once the show stops being so pleased with itself for being so “clever” (which it’s not, really), it will settle down to some quality character drama that doesn’t revolve around repeated points about how people sure were repressed in the early 60s, by golly!


I have been enjoying two aspects of it, though. One is the casting of some actors who look so “60s” that it’s scary. In the above picture, Salvatore Romano, played by Bryan Batt (he’s the guy in the middle), looks like the quintessential 50s man, with a face that Jack “King” Kirby could have drawn. I also appreciated the casting of Robert Morse as snooty executive Bertram Cooper, which is surely a nod to his roles in A Guide for the Married Man and How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying, both of which are hyper-chirpy predecessors of this show.

The other thing I’ve enjoyed is filling in the gaps in Don’s personality. This week we had some horribly written scenes where Don’s wife made a point of commenting on Don’s attempts to avoid discussing his inner thoughts, preferring to hide behind his glossy façade (much like everyone and everything else in the show), and after he falls asleep lies next to him and wistfully says, “Who’s in there?”


That she didn’t follow that line with, “I just feel like I don’t really know the real Don Draper, or even if there is a real Don Draper, behind this wall you have created, like we have all erected walls, because the world of the early 60s is a false world, one where only those mad mad alpha white males hold all the cards. Now, where’s my lighter?”, is a small triumph. I also would have liked her to have knocked on Don’s head, which would ideally let out a loud clang. This is how I entertain myself throughout the show.


Still, even while driving his car one handed and being well louche, it’s true that Don seems to have a mysterious inner monologue going on all the time, though I do wish he was allowed to express this via actual acting instead of by obvious dialogue. He has hinted that he’s more than capable of doing just that, and hopefully he will get a chance to impress me soon. However, it struck me today that such a monumentally relaxed mask as his can only hide the most crazed inner self, and I realised that I reckon it looks like this.


Yes, that is Kenshiro Kasumi, from Fist of the North Star, in full fury mode preparing to use the North Star Hundred Crack Fist to punch some evildoer until his head explodes, which is about as furious as I imagine the real Don Draper is, a reality obscured by much whiskey-drinking and beatnik-shagging. I like that this episode ended with The Great Divide by Masticator’s favourite band The Cardigans, a song that begins “There’s a monster growing inside our heads.” If that song actually began, “There’s a Hokuto Shinken expert who lives in a horrible post-apocalyptic dystopia growing inside our heads,” I reckon it would have been closer to the truth.

Before I even realised about Don’s inner-Kenshiro, I had taken to narrating his monologue while watching the show, and my shouty interjections tend to go something like this.




Hopefully once the mid-60s arrive he can get some free love and Mary Jane and chill out before he goes on a punching rampage up and down Madison Avenue.