Tuesday, December 4, 2007  6:11 pm 

Lord Nuneaton’s Old Gods: Savage got SOUL

So here forth cometh Lord Nuneaton Savage to pound you with he magic of words, anything I could write would pale in comparison with his vital power, so yeah, just read and listen and love and live, and say thanks in the box at the bottom

Savage got SOUL

The most nebulous concept in pop music. The most derided of all musical terms. What does it mean? Does it exist? Where can it be found? Your average poptimist would smirk sloppily at you for even using the term in public. It’s usage, in the smarmy tosser’s eyes, would instantly relegate you to a lifetime membership of the Ocean Colour Scene army. The merest hint that you think a piece of music is in possession of it and you’re down as a Mazda driving, Weller-lionising, well-nothing’s-ever-been-as-good-as-Otis-Redding, I-keep-pictures-of-John-Lennon-framed-in-driftwood-hanging-in-my-house, real-ale slurper, with a Mojo subscription and two kids in the boot to boot. In short, you have signed over the keys to the future and are more excited by carpet samples than the beating pulse of the new.

Yes, Brothers and Sisters, the Savage is talking Soul. And soul, as DJ Shadow knew when he asked what your’s looked like, can take many forms.

ONE! It is a form of music, popularised in the 60s and 70s, sung mainly (but by no means exclusively) by American blacks, which came out of labels such as Tamla Motown, Stax and Atlantic (and Okeh, and Hi! And all the other Northern favourites. But we’d be here all day if we started).

TWO! It is a nebulous inner force often cited by the religious (although not exclusively) as the driving force behind all our interactions. The spiritual inner core that ascends (or descends) following the final collapse of the body. No one can prove whether or not it exists, because, well, proving it exists would rather defeat the object of belief, no?

THREE! It is a byword for that most derided term of the Post-modern age, authenticity, usage of which will also have you pounced on by poptimists, which is rather like being stoned to death with popcorn.

By means of illustration, here is an example of the first usage:

Darrell Banks: Open the Door to Your Heart

Stirring stuff I’m sure you’ll agree. Something about it’s mixture of strength (the surging, balls-of-brass horn stabs) and tenderness (the pleading vocals, the vulnerability). Darrell takes the role of the desperate lover: he pleads, he cajoles, he brandishes his scars as only a desperate man can. Okay, so it’s fully possible that he’s just after a swift bunk-up, but, none-the-less, for those two minutes, the dude cares.

Now here comes a shocker, so prepare yourselves. It is possible that the lady for whom Banks is so ardently striving doesn’t exist. By which I don’t mean that Darrell wants to swap ectoplasm with a ghost, but rather that the talented young fellow is acting. Yes, acting. There is no girl! He didn’t even write the song! Someone else did! Some elf who was randomly sticking pop cliches next to each other ‘til they made sense! Now, despite our aforementioned poptimist friend’s studied protestations, I have never met even the most hardcore Weller-head for whom this was a problem (and I knew someone who had a massive tattoo of Paul Weller’s face on his thigh. Seriously). Because any soul fan knows that it isn’t in the writing skills, or lyrical conceits (most of which, in soul circles, simply consist of sticking the words ‘Of Love’ at the end of a track title. Par example, ‘Crushed Under the Wheel of Love.’ It’s a fun game, try it). No, all true soul fans know that soul is in the delivery.

Think about it. Damo Suzuki spends his career making up glossolalian bollocks and chanting it across whatever band he has behind him. It has no meaning and little craft, it is simply the moment crystalised with as little recourse to prior thought as possible. In reality terms, in terms of supermarkets and car pooling and shirts, it is utterly meaningless, daft even, and yet has there ever been a singer with more soul? Listen to this. Focus on what Copey called Damo’s “erotic careless Devotional”

Can: Sing Swan Song

An eternal glimmering. Nothing and all collide. Have you ever been seduced to ‘Melody Nelson’? Did you know what the lyrics meant? Did you care?

Damo has soul. James Brown does not. Yes he’s good. One of The Titans. But in his vocals there is no yearning for the infinite. No glacial heartbreak. He’s a great musician, but not that great an actor. Sorry, Superbad.

Y’see, if fiction is just as (if not more) real than the everyday, if the Gulf war never took place, then surely authenticity is not even worth a second thought? Those long running arguments across all media. The taking of sides and waving of flags. All for nothing because you’ve invented a dichotomy based on something that never existed. Like the Palestinians and Israelis arguing about who has the land rights to Narnia. Cease this silliness. More soul I say!

Underworld: Jumbo

Bias reflected here, Karl Hyde being one of my favourite vocalists. A shaman who can make the mention of ‘The thumbs on a Tetris keyring’ sound desolate and one of the only true inheritors of Damo’s blue flame. Here he skims across glacial electronic pulses transforming them to throbbing gristle as he goes. His presence humanises. It turns metal to flesh and uncovers the secret yearnings in the machine. Stretch out your wires, baby, I want to fuck your joystick port.

Soul is not a value judgement. Ozzy has it, Robert Plant does not. That doesn’t mean that I don’t worship at the viking altar of Led Zep.

Soul is not a four letter word. Tell me that you’ve never heard it. That you’ve never felt it in the cracking of a voice, in the hum of an electricity pylon after rain. Spring melts frost. Humanity triumphs over cruelty.

Soul is in the spine of the beholder. I’m expecting people to disagree with me about Robert Plant.

Soul is dead. It doesn’t exist. It’s simply a construct cobbled together to make us feel less cold and alone. Why should we care? The construct works. I believe and, in believing, triumph over my need to believe. I hope, however, never to triumph over my need to feel. Soul Invictus!

labels >> can, lord nuneaton savage, soul

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