Taken from this week's Sunday Times.

It is no doubt a sign of the times that the music industry is reaching a crossroads. Some would even call it a crisis. With the trend of illegal downloading still massively on the increase and the financial crisis hitting heavily the number of concert ticket sales, these are uncertain times for the business. Yet amongst all the chaos we still hold onto one timeless constant: Whitby. And the time has come again for another of their irrepressible albums.

Strong as an Ox almost seems like a battle cry; a defiant declaration that whatever the strikes and the gutters of the surrounding situation, Whitby are as strong as they have ever been, consistently raising the bar just that bit further than is expected. Unusually for them, they’d taken a long period of absence from the public’s unblinking eye, whether appearing in different forms or disappearing completely.

Tom Brown (now prophetically known simply as Teebs) has been experimenting in another breakaway band, Linen House, who exploded onto the music scene several months ago and then almost as abruptly vanished – Brown cites commitment issues of the other band members as contributing to their disbanding. Drummer Alan Wilson spent time touring with one of the band’s good friends, Jack’s Mannequin, whilst guitarist James Harmer took time out to explore various far flung corners of the world, from Iceland to Tibet. Richard Cooper has spent most of his time shying away from the media attention and spending time with his new girlfriend, none other than conductor of the London Philharmonic Orchestra Sara L. Latto. Josh Ingold is more ambiguous about how he spent his time, but an imminent paternity lawsuit may reveal more than he would have liked.

Thankfully, their time apart eventually came to an end and they regrouped, refreshed and rebooted, and are ready to storm the musical world once again. Principle work on the album was undergone in the band’s studio in London, but in order to escape the frenzy that surrounded them, the band’s two figureheads Teebs and Cooper retreated to a private villa in the south of France to put the finishing touches to their work. Accompanying them was Felicity Pyatt, one-time member of the short-lived but fondly remembered Looks like Rain, who was more than happy to tag along. “To have the opportunity to work with probably the two most prominent figures in 21^st century music was a no brainer,” she tells me in a phone interview after her return. “How could I say no? I felt honoured to be asked and all in all was happy with my contribution to the album.”

Perhaps her most notable contribution is on the track Aromatherapy Boobies, in which she features along with Dizzie Rascal. It’s one of the stand-out tracks in terms of sheer catchiness and once heard it won’t leave your head for the duration of the day. “People today are so intent on making ‘serious’ music that they forget that it can be fun and catchy,” claims Cooper, in a homely interview that he was kind enough to conduct in his gorgeous front room. “If it stays in your head after you’ve heard it then as far as I’m concerned it’s a good piece of music.”

One of the great contradictions of Whitby is the seeming juxtaposition of Cooper and Teebs in pivotal roles. Whilst Cooper is clearly more concerned with the melodies of the songs, Teebs is becoming more and more of a counter-cultural figurehead in our society. Increasingly political, everything he says seems to be layered and nuanced with duality and something potent lurking underneath the surface. He is also expanding his creative credentials, with a hotly anticipated novel in the works that is, according to his publicist I might add, “the most important work of literature of the last decade.”

Whilst this remains to be seen, Teebs is certainly focussed on making an impact whatever the forum. I managed to speak with him briefly after he made a rousing speech at the London Leftish Rally; he was exhilarated but as articulate as we’ve come to expect. “I’m very excited about this album. I think it reflects our present zeitgeist and foresees which way the world is turning. The important thing is to remember it’s never too late: sadness is transient but belief can take us places other people would fear to tread.”

If Strong as an Ox is a sign of the times to come, we can surely all feel reassured; it is quite simply a monumental piece of work. I have nowhere near enough column space to mention every track I would like to, but I reserve special praise for The Seminal Crystal, a cutting parody of Katie Price’s first novel in which Cooper screeches out in a sickly pseudo American voice “how subtle was that?” to Ingold’s throbbing bass lines; and title track Ox Nihat (And the Prisoner of E. Leclerc), which begins as a seemingly innocent and anecdotal piano ballad but progresses into an apocalyptic crescendo of lyrical magnificence and a full orchestra. It has to be heard to be believed.

At times it remains a mystery how the music interweaves so well with itself. Audacious barely comes close to describing Wilson’s Paradox, a song that features only Alan Wilson’s impressive repertoire on drums and Teebs’ frightening expertise on the harmonica. It just shouldn’t work, but it’s a miraculous song that has become a fan’s favourite during the latest dates of Whitby tours. “We just understand each other,” Wilson reveals in the programme notes for their stadium tour. “It’s most fun when we get to improvise with each other; we once did a ten minute version of Windy Woof just because it felt right. It’s incredible to be a part of something like that.”

Their debut album, Keatsian Whisp’rings seems almost a lifetime ago, yet against all the odds, Whitby maintain the ability to surprise and inspire. Their official tribute act, Shitby, even managed a number one hit, such is their popularity. Like all things, however, one day it must end, but until it does we should all thank whoever it is we may believe in that we are lucky enough to share our time on earth with quite simply the greatest band ever to have existed.

Track listing:

1. BILLIONS OF YEARS AGO...
2. Windy Woof
3. Aromatherapy Boobies (feat. Felicity Pyatt and Dizzee Rascal)
4. And He Was The 2^nd Lieutenant
5. The Guatemalan Five
6. That’s Not Gary Barlow, It’s Gorbachov
7. Obscenities Included
8. Ox Nihat (And the Prisoner of E. Leclerc)
9. The Seminal Crystal
10. Slowly Losing Consciousness on the Couches
11. (Many Many) Donkey Engines
12. Wilson’s Paradox
...
52. Umpire Signals Wet Ball (Dubsy Onesies)

So this seems a little appropriate in light of our current situation...


I sit and look out upon all the sorrows of the world, and upon all
oppression and shame,
I hear secret convulsive sobs from young men at anguish with
themselves, remorseful after deeds done,
I see in low life the mother misused by her children, dying,
neglected, gaunt, desperate,
I see the wife misused by her husband, I see the treacherous seducer
of young women,
I mark the ranklings of jealousy and unrequited love attempted to be
hid, I see these sights on the earth,
I see the workings of battle, pestilence, tyranny, I see martyrs and
prisoners,
I observe a famine at sea, I observe the sailors casting lots who
shall be kill'd to preserve the lives of the rest,
I observe the slights and degradations cast by arrogant persons upon
laborers, the poor, and upon negroes, and the like;
All these--all the meanness and agony without end I sitting look out upon,
See, hear, and am silent.

I wrote this a couple of months ago, and it never saw the light of day so I thought I'd pop it up here. Enjoy, or don't.

 

What a summer we had. The blocks were well and truly busted as we were sledge hammered with big budget films over the last few months, and whilst admittedly the quality varied wildly (Speed Racer, anyone?) we were treated to what amounts to over $1.5 billion worth of cinema. Lucky us.

Franchise was the order of the summer. Some were revived, à la the disappointing Indiana Jones; some were born, as with the surprisingly not that bad Iron Man; and others were hopefully put to bed, namely the desperate Sex and the City – yes, I actually saw it. With movies being continually considered as simply a way to make sums of money, studios are looking for films with viable sequel potential and lucrative merchandising opportunities. About half of the major blockbusters were, once again, some form of sequel (Indiana Jones, The Dark Knight, Hellboy 2, Chronicles of Narnia), whilst others like Iron Man, The Incredible Hulk (was that really necessary) and probably Wanted and Hancock will spawn bastard sequels of their own. I don’t even want to imagine the kind of merchandise that came from Sex and the City (you’d hope a Carrie Bradshaw-shaped cyanide pill, perhaps) and other films like the magnificent WALL-E birthed a multitude of pyjamas and cuddly toys that I came worryingly close to buying for myself...

Three films (Indiana, Iron Man, The Dark Knight) grossed over $100 million in their opening weekend in the States alone, with The Dark Knight breaking the previous record held by Spiderman 3 - seriously, how did that get there? At least six films (at the time of writing) raked in over $350 all in all, and we’re left to wonder where on earth all this disposable income came from. So it all looks pretty rosy for cinema, at least in financial terms. Well, not quite. The great success of these summer smashes has meant that considerably less money and attention has been given to the smaller films – you know, the ones that get good reviews but never seem to be showing at your local Vue. Whereas in previous years, less commercial films such as the fantastic Man on Wire would have easily surpassed £1 million in the UK, this year it only managed to scrape past £500,000. The highest grossing foreign language film was Mongol: The Rise to Power of Genghis Kahn, which wasn’t even close to reaching the million mark. We seem to have forsaken the subtleties and appeal of independent film and flocked to much easier forms of entertainment.

This may not be entirely fair, however, on neither the so-called blockbusters nor the general viewing public. Whilst there were undeniably soulless, pointless, idiotic films that Sarah Palin probably supported – Speed Racer, The Incredible Hulk – there was more than a healthy bite of intelligence from this summer’s cinematic lunch. Iron Man, even if refusing to directly address the issues, had large parts of its runtime in the Middle East, and Wanted at least tried to address issues of societal apathy, even if it didn’t quite convince. And for those of you who saw The Dark Knight, which I’m sure is pretty much everyone, it barely needs to be said (though I’ll say it anyway) that the issues dealt with were certainly not the standard fare for a big money ‘superhero’ movie. At times it almost feels like a political drama, and the big fuss with the BBFC considering upping the rating to a 15 goes a little way to emphasising how ‘adult’ the film is.

WALL-E, too, was hardly your usual children’s animated film. Although it’s become an expectation that Pixar conceive their films with adults in mind as well as the little kiddies, no one quite expected how far they’d go with their latest creation of genius. Having a central character who can speak less than a handful of words was a risky move, but he is one of the most adorable and loveable individuals of cinema history. The first 40 minutes or so of the film, with its dystopian and deserted depiction of earth, is every bit the art film of, say, 2001. So it’s not like we’ve been trying to avoid any kind of intelligent thought.

Really, then, we have been pretty lucky this summer. With films like WALL-E and The Dark Knight, we’ve been having our cake and thoroughly stuffing our faces with it, and even though they’re awful, films like Speed Racer are useful because we like to have something to complain about. Plus they make everything else look considerably better. So rejoice and be thankful. I hope you, like me, were able to get out and about round the multiplexes and breathe in the summer’s offerings. You should make the most of it: with last year’s writers strike starting to catch up with the rest of Hollywood, not to mention the world in financial crisis, next summer could be a pretty meagre one...

Face to face the people stand

With declarations in their hands

The battle’s ready to be won

As man to man hands down his gun

The middle-men prepare themselves

To witness every kind of hell

You’d think that they would curb their rage

But they’ve all read a different page

That urges them to fight the rest

Until the living are possessed

With headless rage and heartless fight

We’re lucky to live out the night

The fields of green dissolve in smoke

The violence makes the people choke

But still the people stand and face

With regiments of different race

And still the people stay their ground

The ticking clock has been rewound

And words are waved about like flags

Redemption hides in paper bags

And while the battle rages on

A few of us break out in song

And for a moment save ourselves

From this specific living hell

But notes alone cannot redeem

The human follies we have seen

And only when we start to shout

All hope of rescue peters out

The blunter edge of sharpened blades

Disperses light in ghastly shades

 We cannot live with this pretence

This clumsy lack of common sense

But whilst they’re standing face to face

There’ll be no turn form this disgrace

As face to face the people stand

The sky is blue and unbroken,

And watches as our day unfolds,

The songs we sing are softly spoken,

Our backs begin to turn to gold.

Carefully, we find our seating,

And settle in your friendly stones,

Your swell advancing and retreating,

Accepts the pebbles we have thrown.

Silently, we start to listen,

To sounds of waves that slush and break,

Ripples on your surface glisten;

Your friend, the Sun, is wide awake.

We bask in something glorious

And graciously we tip our hats,

We can’t help feel victorious

And love to see you smiling back.

Your golden light’s no guarantee:

We know tomorrow you will change,

But we sincerely hope to see

Another day like this arranged.

You made no big bang or sudden splash to

Introduce yourself: but that’s what I prefer.

A subtle blend of sweet sincerity

And a shy, certain kind of innocence

Already has me caught, ‘til finally

I feel myself beginning to let go.

I smile lightly: it’s taken long enough.

Although upon reflection, the past and

Present bear a similarity more

Expansive than aesthetics, it doesn’t

Bother me. Difference is in their names.

Even though infatuation may be

Temporary, I’m thrilled to have the chance

To hope. I need to dream of something else.

My converse damp and leather soaked,

I breathe heavily from running.

The people all around me cloaked,

Before the storm that’s always coming.

The seating offers little warmth,

Despite the heater dead below,

The grotty patterned fabric’s worn,

Disgruntled clockwork’s all on show.

It must’ve been around the place,

And wandered all the dusty tracks,

The traveller without a face,

The leaking windows oozing black.

Of all the lives that it has been,

It ends each and every night alone.

It matters not what it has seen,

As long as this train gets me home.

And while the room sits deathly still,
The string that holds the bulb does sway,
And darkness has to wait until
The ghostly light’s faded away.

If only sunlight could break through,
But windowless the room remains,
There’s no one left to answer to:
Only the walls who don’t complain.

The corners are disguised in black;
The spaces that the light can’t reach,
The places where we can’t go back,
The mourners left that try to preach.

And soon the glint will say goodbye,
The dusty room will fade from sight,
So will the last one here to die
Please turn out the light.

Dirty Sheets

Another step along the soggy path
That runs among the clueless and the old,
A suitcase, packed, that wasn’t built to last
Is full of useless facts that I’ve been told.
I rest my eyes, but there’s nothing worse than
Having nightmares in the city of dreams,
Hiding behind ideologies that
Fade amongst skylines: were they ever clean?

I don’t remember how these sheets became
Dirtied: too long, perhaps, I went unchanged
And did not notice them: I am the same
But no one cared enough to notice me.
The pillows too are empty; full of air
That’s been recycled more times than myself;
Too many heads have rested, unaware
That they are pressing trodden ground of wealths

Of skulls who’ve rubbed against the same ideas:
Another print that removes defining
Features except a solitary sneer
That stares me in the face from the lining.
Strewn around the floor are parodies of
Feelings: artificial chemicals that seep
Into worn and tattered ideals of love
And send concerned awareness back to sleep.

Face cupped in hands, I look around the room
And fool myself that I can change the sheets,
That redemption will have to happen soon
And muddied water has to sound retreat.
But no matter how much soil I allot,
Nothing can ever grow here. No matter
How much expectation I try to pot,
Change will never nurture in the shattered

Shards of broken bottles and grimy linen
That still remains unchanged and smothers me
When all I want to do is breathe again
Instead of spending life among debris.
Elbows on my knees, I gulp and swallow
Blood that isn’t mine in a room that fosters
A million other lives, full of hollow
Anecdotes about who’s the real imposter.

Head on pillow, I think it might be me.