An album review by Pelican Tangerine
An entirely unnecessary track-by-track investigation into music, soup, sexual confusion, the year 1996 and the continuing decline of Western civilisation.
A WORD BEFORE WE START
Apparently, Walt Disco are a glam band. Or art-rock. Or post-punk. Or whatever the fuck some po-faced music journo with a degree in Cultural Studies and a tote bag full of soy milk decides they are this week.
Glam? Oh, just fuck off.
Not everybody who wears a bit of eyeliner and leather keks is Marc fucking Bolan. There’s more going on here. There’s baroque. There’s Scott Walker, Anthony Newley, My Life Story, Bowie, Rialto, enormous Trevor Horn productions that cost more than a council estate and probably consumed enough snow to fill a child’s paddling pool.
There’s grandeur. There’s ridiculousness. There’s tragedy. There’s somebody standing in the middle of a burning ballroom wearing a beautiful blouse, shouting, “DOES ANYBODY KNOW WHERE THE FUCKING LIGHT SWITCH IS?”
Anyway, I’ve put the album on.
I have made absolutely no preparations. I’ve not looked at the press release, conducted a critical analysis of the contemporary Scottish alternative music scene or consulted a man called Harvey.
I’m wearing ordinary fire-retardant trousers. Here we go…
1. MY BODY KNOWS WHEN TO RUN
Fuck me. I’ve accidentally put Kasabian on.
What’s all this? Chants! Aggression! Industrial cling-clang! Guitars interfering with other guitars! Something being hit with a shovel! Somebody shouting in what sounds like a disused steelworks!
It’s got enormous bollocks, this. Great big, swinging wrecking ball bollocks. The sort of bollocks you’d see dangling beneath a bronze statue of a horse outside a town hall.
It’s aggressive but strangely affectionate. Like being assaulted by somebody who subsequently offers to make you a cup of tea and asks if you need a lift to the hospital.
It’s got that big, belligerent, swaggering confidence, but somebody’s slipped a bit of silk into its underpants.
I like it. I feel slightly threatened. I might have to start a fight with someone much smaller than me. And lose.
2. LIES
Oh.
Well, I wasn’t expecting THAT.
It’s 1996. I’m in a disco. I’ve got an oversized shirt on and I’ve probably got about £13.47 left until dole day. I’m dancing like a gibbon who’s inadvertently swallowed a whistle.
I’m free. I’m alive. I might be in love with somebody called Claire. Or Lisa. Or Darren. Or Geoff. Doesn’t really matter. It’s 1996 and anything’s possible.
And this is fucking WONDERFUL.
Proper, crafted, beautiful pop music. Not some cynical, algorithmically generated load of pish designed to accompany an advert for yoghurt. Actual pop music. With feelings in it.
The song goes a bit quiet halfway through, presumably to collect its thoughts, have a cigarette and phone its mum.
Then it returns laughing its fucking head off, wearing a traffic cone on its head and eating a stolen kebab.
It doesn’t give two fucks. Neither do I.
I’d expected pompous, extravagant baroque magnificence, which I adore, but Walt Disco have apparently gone into a laboratory, discarded all their safety equipment and invented a particularly dangerous form of pop.
It’s making me happy. It’s making me sad. I want to hug somebody. Then I want to push them away and accuse them of nicking my cigs.
I want Mrs. Tangerine in my arms. I want peace on Earth. I want universal love. I want everybody to stop being such absolute cunts.
And I want this song played at my funeral, but only if the mourners are prepared to have a proper fucking dance.
3. NEVER NEW
Soup.
That’s what this is.
Soup.
Beautiful, familiar, homemade, bubbling, nourishing soup.
Not shit soup. Not those fucking powdered sachets you get in motorway service stations. PROPER soup.
This is flirtatious soup. I want to have ‘relations’ with this soup. I want to take this soup to the pictures. I want to introduce it to my family. I want to knock abart with it. Go to gigs. Go camping. Have an argument in IKEA about a bedside cabinet called ‘Fren’.
This soup has got a bassline Bootsy Collins would be proud of. It’s got a little MDMA in it, which I suspect may contravene several food hygiene regulations.
It’s almost indie-pop, but good indie-pop. Indie-pop that’s washed its hair, got a grip and decided to stop being such a fucking drip.
I’m back in my damp flat in 1996.
It’s three in the morning. The windows are running with condensation. There’s half a bottle of Mad Dog on the floor, â half smoked doobie in the ashtray and somebody’s asleep in the bath. Meanwhile, I’m sitting on the front steps having the most extraordinary conversation of my entire life with the postman who’s just started his shift.
We’re talking about love, sex, mortality, the miners’ strike, whether dogs understand Christmas and what would happen if you pushed a fridge down an escalator.
And the bloke understands me. Not just tolerates me. He really fucking understands me. I think we might have a future together.
The song finishes.
I’m devastated.
Then I press repeat.
HELLO, POSTMAN MY OLD FRIEND.
4. WARMFACE
Oh, Christ. Oh, you beautiful fuckers.
This is something else.
The theatrical vocals! The melody! The bloody tenderness of it all!
Anthony Newley would absolutely have approved. He’d have strode into the studio wearing a velvet smoking jacket, raised one eyebrow and said, “Yes, darling. THAT.”
There’s that wonderfully affected vocal delivery, but underneath the performance there’s something genuinely moving.
It’s an enormous warm cuddle, this song. Not one of those awkward embraces you get from a distant relative at a crematorium. A proper cuddle. The sort where you briefly stop worrying about bills, death, your car’s MOT and the possibility of nuclear annihilation.
Walt Disco are spooning me. There’s probably jizz on my bum cheeks, but I’m not bothered.
It’ll wipe.
There’s a line about wiping the egg from our faces, reclaiming lost time and telling the world to fuck off.
Quite right.
Actually, there’s something unexpectedly profound happening here. Regret. Forgiveness. Lost time. Trying to make sense of the fucking enormous mess we all make of being alive.
And, rather than shouting about it through a megaphone while dressed as a depressed peacock, they’ve written an absolutely gorgeous song.
What the fuck has happened to Walt Disco? Have they grown up? Have they gone respectable? Have they bought a trouser press?
I’m four tracks in and it’s banger after banger. Not identical bangers, either. Different varieties of bang. The entire municipal fireworks display of fucking bang.
I’m beginning to suspect something very special is going on.
5. DON’T DO THIS ALONE
More theatre. More desperation.
More extraordinary vocals delivered as though somebody’s just received a letter informing them that their entire family has been replaced by replicants.
Beautiful stuff.
Walt Disco understand drama. Not that shitty, unnecessary drama where somebody posts something cryptic on Facebook about snakes and loyalty.
REAL drama.
The big stuff. Loneliness. Love. Being frightened. Wanting somebody to sit next to you and tell you everything’s going to be alright, even though neither of you has the faintest idea whether it will.
There’s a wonderful sense of emotional exposure here. The song’s pleading, theatrical, vulnerable and just a tiny bit damaged and unhinged.
Which, frankly, is how most worthwhile relationships begin. Not particularly keen on the video, mind.
I kept expecting a Cocker Spaniel to stick its head out of a moving car window.
You know that look? Ears flapping about, lips blowing backwards, eyes filled with absolute terror but enjoying every fucking second of it?
That.
Anyway, enough about the dog. The song is wonderful. I’ll give the dog a biscuit.
6. NEW FRIENDS
BACK TO 1996!
We’ve moved on a little. We’re older. Wiser. Possibly. We’re looking backwards and forwards. Assessing our lives, wondering how we got here and whether we could have made better decisions.
Oh, fuck off.
IT’S A POP SONG! And a magnificent one at that.
Does it pop? Yes. Does it make me want to dance? Absolutely. Does it make me want to get drunk, shout affectionate obscenities at complete strangers and embrace a copper?
Yes, yes and possibly.
There’s something really clever about this album.
It gets you dancing, then quietly slips something heartbreaking into your pocket.
You get home, empty your trousers and discover you’ve been carrying around several unresolved emotional traumas, an empty packet of cheese and onion crisps and a pack of johnnies.
But the melodies! The confidence! The sheer fucking JOY of people making music because they obviously love making music!
Not because a record company has organised a meeting about market positioning and audience engagement.
Fuck your audience engagement.
Get the bass turned up!!!
If this album doesn’t make a dent somewhere, the world is full of cunts.
Although, to be fair, there’s already quite a lot of evidence suggesting that it is.
7. COUP DE FOUDRE
FUCKING HELL!!! What was THAT?
It’s like being chased through a department store by an aggressive Frenchman who’s just discovered his wife has been having an affair with some cheese.
Magnificent.
Urgent. Exciting. Utterly ridiculous. My blood pressure’s gone up, which isn’t particularly advisable for a man in my condition.
I’m going to sit down. Possibly have a banana. No, fuck it. Play it again. But much louder ya big lemon!!!
8. TOTAL SURPRISE MACHINE
There’s a remarkable confidence running through this album. But not smug confidence.
Not that awful, self-satisfied confidence you get from people who wear expensive spectacles with no lenses, tight keks and describe themselves as creatives.
It’s confidence with doubt underneath it.
One minute Walt Disco are standing on a rooftop shouting, “LOOK AT ME, I’M FUCKING MAGNIFICENT!”
The next they’re sitting in a corner, crying into a tea towel because somebody they love hasn’t returned a telephone call.
And I just fucking love that me.
They’re building things, dismantling them, rebuilding them, then knocking the whole fucking lot down because somebody’s found a better way of doing the roof.
I love baroque pop. Always have.
Scott Walker. David Bowie. My Life Story. The FGTH Welcome to the Pleasuredome chaos. Orphans & Vandals, Rialto. Suede even. Although I’ve just punched myself in the face for saying that. Anyway, all that glorious, overblown, theatrical music that makes everyday life feel like the final act of a very expensive musical.
But Walt Disco appear to have escaped from that particular cage. They’ve looked at their influences, stroked them affectionately, thanked them for their service and then pushed them into a canal.
They’re not simply imitating the past. They’re taking the things they love, dismantling the machinery and building something of their own.
They’ve emerged from the smoke wearing entirely inappropriate footwear, announced that everything’s going to be different from now on and then promptly set fire to the instruction manual.
And it works. Fuck me, it works.
I could write several paragraphs about sonic architecture, musical reinvention and the juxtaposition of emotional vulnerability with theatrical grandeur.
But I’d rather eat my own face. This is a fucking brilliant album. Once track 11 finishes, I’m putting the entire fucker back on.
That’s it.
9. LOOK OUT FOR ME
Oh, now look what you’ve done.
You’ve gone and broken my fucking heart. The vocals. The harmonies. The fragility.
There’s a little crack in the performance, the sort that reminds you there’s an actual human being singing rather than some electronically reconstructed mannequin with perfect teeth.
To quote my gloriously unhinged former sister-in-law:
“It got me reight thee’er. Brok me chuffin’ ‘art.” (as she bangs her fist on her chest). Exactly.
This is soundtrack music.
But not shit soundtrack music where a pretty detective stares moodily across a harbour because her marriage is in trouble and somebody’s stolen a yacht.
Proper soundtrack music.
Imagine little Tommy, aged eight, standing at the side of the road, holding an ice cream.
It’s a lovely summer’s day. The birds are singing. The sun is shining.
His mother steps into the road. A fucking enormous lorry appears.
OH, JESUS CHRIST, TOMMY!!!
And then this song starts. Beautiful, devastating, utterly heartbreaking.
Somewhere between enormous cinematic tragedy and a small, private moment of unbearable sadness.
That’s what good music does. It makes a completely imaginary eight- year-old boy and his unfortunate mother suddenly seem terribly important.
Poor Tommy. I hope he didn’t drop his ice cream.
10. MY BODY’S STILL MINE
STOP. JUST FUCKING STOP.
I can’t take much more of this.
What an absolutely gorgeous, ridiculous, moving, magnificent album.
Walt Disco have basically put their hands down my trousers and made me feel all funny. And that’s what music is, isn’t it?
SEX. S. E. X.
Getting a bloke. Getting a bird. Falling in love. Falling out of love. Getting dumped. Doing the dumping. Waking up alone. Waking up with somebody. Waking up with somebody and wondering why there’s a fucking cocker spaniel in the bedroom.
Love. Hate. Death. Joy. Doubt. Drama. Idiocy. Loss. Loneliness. Perspective. Possession. Obsession.
Shit. Piss. Tears. Kisses.
The whole glorious, pointless, beautiful, heartbreaking business of being human. And all of it soundtracked by Walt Disco.
There’s vulnerability here without self-pity. There’s defiance without all that tiresome macho posturing. There’s something wonderfully human about the whole thing.
It’s music that makes you want to phone somebody you haven’t spoken to for twenty years. Not necessarily to say anything particularly
important. Just to hear their voice. Perhaps tell them you’re glad they existed. Then call them a wanker.
It’s like that first piece of warm, heavily buttered toast after you’ve undergone three hours of rectal prolapse surgery.
You lie there, tender and exhausted, contemplating the fragility of existence.
Then a nurse brings you the toast.
You take a bite. And suddenly you remember that life can still be absolutely fucking wonderful. The butter runs down your chin. Á single tear rolls down your cheek.
Somewhere, a surgeon is washing his hands. And Walt Disco are playing in the background.
I don’t think I can offer a more meaningful critical assessment than that.
11. WONDERLAND
And after all that…
Peace.
A gentle, swirling, thoughtful, beautifully judged ending.
The noise settles. The curtains close. The last of the glitter is swept from the ballroom floor.
The postman’s finished his shift. Little Tommy’s received counselling. The Cocker Spaniel is running through the park with reckless abandon.
And I’m sitting here, slightly dazed, feeling considerably more affectionate towards humanity than I did an hour ago.
It’s a lovely way to finish.
No need for another enormous explosion. No need to throw a piano down the stairs or set fire to a swan.
Just a little space to breathe.
I like that. I really fucking like that.
THE VERDICT
I went into this expecting great theatrical, baroque, slightly pompous pop music. Something dramatic and extravagant.
Something wearing a cape indoors.
What I got was considerably more interesting.
Eleven songs full of invention, confidence, magnificent melodies, tenderness, absurdity, heartbreak and the sort of emotional honesty that’s difficult to manufacture, no matter how many producers, publicists and marketing consultants you lock inside a meeting room.
And yes, there are moments of enormous theatrical excess.
Thank fuck for that.
But there’s also restraint. There’s warmth. There’s proper songwriting. There’s a remarkable ability to make something simultaneously funny, joyous and desperately sad.
It’s an album with a big heart and an overactive imagination. It doesn’t simply wallow in its influences. It takes them somewhere else.
Above all, it’s a fucking POP album.
An absolutely wonderful pop album. And I don’t mean pop as some sort of lesser musical form, to be patronised by serious hipster fucks.
I mean POP. The glorious stuff.
The stuff that makes you dance when you’re sad. Cry when you’re happy. Fall in love with somebody on a cold and wet Tuesday afternoon as you’re waiting for a bus. The pop that makes you feel fifteen again when you’re fifty-six.
The stuff that reminds you you’re still here. Still alive. Still capable of feeling ridiculous, extraordinary, overwhelming things.
Despite all the disappointments, the grief, the cruelty and the enormous amount of absolute bollocks this world throws at us, there’s still something tremendously beautiful about being alive.
And every so often, a group of people get together, make a record and remind you of that.
Walt Disco have done exactly that.
I’d like to shake their hands. Hug them. Buy them a drink. Maybe take them for a walk in the countryside and point out a particularly interesting bit of moss, perhaps pick up a beautifully coloured pebble, write our names on it, say “remember me”, then awkwardly touch their faces. And thank them.
Genuinely.
For making something so fucking lovely.
PEACE AND LOVE TO ALL MANKIND.
Except music journalists who use the words liminal, soundscape, zeitgeist or genre-defying without a really good explanation.
They can fuck off.
I am PELICAN TANGERINE* and I say “yes” to the world.
*An independent cultural organisation operating without funding, editorial supervision or any discernible understanding of anything, really.
