Of all the novel names for a band—and, let’s face it, there are plenty of ‘em—Adelaide’s jazz trio, yeahyeahabsolutelynoway!, surely has to top the lot. But that’s not all that’s oval or unusual about the group: it also has a very unconventional makeup, in that it features two guitarists (James Brown and Sam Cagney) and a drummer (Stephen Neville). Their self-confessed shtick is seventies fusion and yet there’s something very now, very present about it. It’s evident and available to be tested by way of their debut album, Um…, recorded live to tape, sans edits or overdubs, last last year. Ah, analogue! It’s one of those records, I s’pose, that could all too easily (and unjustly) slip under the radar, undetected. Fortunately, I’ve been alerted to its existence and have had the benefit of discovering it, in depth and at relative leisure. The first thing to say is it transcends genre: the outfit seems, in fact, quite determined to subvert expectations and defy those who’d seek to hem it in with ‘file under’ toe-tags. The triangular shape of the sound, too, immediately distinguishes it from anything else on the scene.
The players jump in with both feet (well, all six) on Howl, which explodes with a rapid flurry of strummed guitar, snare and cymbals, devolving into meanderings on lead. There’s a testosterone-driven urgency befitting the title: it feels like a candid expression of pent-up anger and frustration, tempered by moments of talking oneself down. It has qualities of both preconception and spontaneity; which is to say, it seems as tough it’s partly written and partly improvised. It’s an odd, angular meeting of the visceral and the thoughtful; throbbing with pain, burning with passion, before breaking its own momentum to take stock and regather its fundamental force.
It’s principally informed by jazz chords, in contrast to the funked-up, dirty, blues-infused Ouff, which might well be an onomatopoeic title. It opens with Neville pounding away anarchically on kickdrum, snare and cymbals. He’s soon joined by what at least sounds like bass and stingingly razor-edged guitar. It’s all very sinister and back alley; a kind of brothel-creeping, Tarantinoed, cinematographic, tongue-in-cheek jazz, all finger-snappin’, hep and cool as a cucumber slushy. At the very same time, it’s smokily atmospheric, the slushy melting away with every searing lick of BB King-meets-Hendrix-like lead. I suggest you slip into your finest pimp get-up to really get in the groove.
Void follows and counterpoints the mood, building slowly from a melancholic and contemplative opening to a conversation between Brown’s and Cagney’s guitars. Again, there’s a pervasive, grittiness to the sound that’s more rock than jazz-derived. Fuzzy distortion lends a street-savvy texture. Musically and emotionally, it climbs to a crescendo. with the guitars the heroes: Neville keeps the percussive backdrop spare and simple, much of the feel coming from splashes, swishes and lingering shimmers of cymbals. He gets more of a turn with On Your Marx, Get Set!, which stands as an homage to the advent of crossover, with its pacy rhythms, reverb and consequently spacey lead guitar; behind it, a spine of corroded chords, leaning into the wind. It brims with energy and momentum.
From frenetic to brooding: Shetland Dream 1863 is adagio and has Neville drag out the brushes. It’s appropriate I should rely upon a formal term, as somewhere in there, I believe, is a melodic debt to classicism; a certain weight and solemnity, to say nothing of compositional skill. Sonically, however, it stands for something entirely different. It has the characteristic twang of guitar (solo, to begin) that permeates and lends personality to the entire album and a wonderful, warm-as, old-school resonance. On this track, as with others, Richard Belkner has insinuated a distinctive sound in the mix that brands the trio indelibly. One can only but speculate as to what historical details might be alluded to and, it being strictly instrumental, there’s plenty of scope for imagining. This is stay-up-late, bourbon-in-hand, indie jazz of the first and finest order.
A Perfect Day For Bananafish has the band laying back; almost lying down, with a breathy, intimate and still dark (in the way of heavy metal menacing) sound; again, it builds, to bring out characteristic sounds: that disturbing, fuzzy electric guitar, which quite suddenly turns left, heading down the kinky road to effects-laden anarchy, intimated, I s’pose, by its surrealistic title.
(Believe in the) Monocause features a big, up-close and personal drum sound and a heavy bass groove, overlaid with jangling guitars in fierce dialogue. As seems to be typical, it’s an eloquent, economical piece that swells to a crescendo, before dissipating back into the ether.
Look At You has a rugged, ragged romance about it, distorted and slightly discordant still, but with allusions to classically clean, clear, bright jazz guitar chords and stylings. It seems to me a disarmingly naked statement of awkward admiration, of the kind one feels for a partner to whom one is deeply connected, or in a serendipitous moment of affinity with a complete stranger. One can almost feel the unbidden shudder of tears which just won’t stay down, despite one’s most strenuous efforts to keep one’s masculine powder dry.
There’s something poignantly anthemic about Requiem for David, the penultimate track on this quite sombre album. It has a pervasive sense of culmination in its placement in the running order, upping the ante on the band’s trademark, subversive ‘dirty jazz’ bent and poring out angst and pain in a searing storm.
Finally, there’s Down Home, a no-holds-barred, bluesy excursion that barely clings to jazz as it lets and gets loose with heroic, full-blooded rock guitar motifs. It makes for a fitting finish, Cagney and Brown machine-gunning their way over the parapet of predictability, boldly going where none else currently is: there’s nothing and none out there, to the best of my awareness, quite, or anything, like it, or them. As a result, Um… emerges as not merely innovative, but explosively, uncompromisingly so. The band melds sounds reminiscent of the 60s, 70s and much earlier into something entirely distinctive and almost shockingly new. And there’s nothing like a little musical ECT to jolt us out of our complacency.
These guys are about to tour so visit their website for more info http://yeahyeahabsolutelynoway.com/
Review by Lloyd Bradford Syke – Performing arts editor and freelance contributor – Twitter https://twitter.com/braddo2
Lloyd Bradford Syke – 'Braddo' is a creative director, journalist and broadcaster; a man of many passions, not least among them leftist politics (hell, he's even lefthanded!) and the multifarious arts; both visual and performing. He is or has been a gun communicator (is, for hire); former and, hopefully, future radio presenter; ABC Local Radio film reviewer; documentary filmmaker and more. Jazz was, is and will ever remain one of his primary, guilt-free pleasures.
For an obligation-free peek at his folio, to damn him with faint praise, or, indeed, just to damn him, or on any other flimsy premise, please email lloydsyke(at)optusnet.com.au , or call 0414 BRADS 2.
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