 |
|
JAN DUKES DE GRAY, "MICE AND RATS IN THE LOFT"
BreathlessThis is the long overdue CD reissue of one of the most mythical,sought-after
albums from the British progressive folk scene of theearly 1970s. Right up there with classics like Comus' First Utterance and Simon Finn's Pass the Distance, Jan Dukes De Grey's 1971 LP Mice and Rats in the Loftis a brilliant work of psychedelic folk with a seething undercurrent ofmalevolence. Apparently having learned a lesson from the artistic andcommercial failure of their first LP, 1970's Sorcerers on theNova label, the duo of Derek Noy and Michael Bairstow enlisted drummerDenis Conlan, and quickly disposed of all notions of pop songcraft towhich they might have initially aspired. Instead, they recorded thedistinctly uncommercial 19-minute sidelong "Sun Symphonica," abreathtaking, dynamic work of epic genius, fusing together at leastfive separate musical movements into an unfolding narrative that beginswith a hippie paean to the sun and proceeds through progressivelydarker and more twisted realms. The instrumental bridges arebrilliantly conceived, referencing the medieval idiom popular inBritish folk of this period, but impregnating it with an energy thatsmolders with intensity and immediacy. Effortlessly wielding 12-stringguitar, violin, cello, flute, clarinet, recorder, harmonica and adizzying assortment of percussion, the trio plays with all the poise ofan experienced jazz ensemble, but produces something altogether heavierand more psychedelic, as if Amon Düül II had restricted themselves toacoustic instruments and decided to compose a soundtrack to The Wicker Man.As the "Sun Symphonica" trudges on through its many moods and phases,it gradually becomes clear that a distinctly pagan formula is at work,and the solar imagery is quickly eclipsed by its more primordialcounterpart: the devil in the form of dead, bloated corpses coveredwith maggots rotting under the intense noonday sun. By the 15-minutemark, the track is a swirling maelstrom of simmering instrumentalfragments flying around the stereo channels in a lunatic dance, as the"sunshine" mantra returns once more, where in a savage irony it hasbeen transformed into a terrifying hex. Unfortunately, the album neveragain reaches the maniacal heights of Side A, but where it does go isnearly as fascinating. "Call of the Wild" utilizes the voices of allthree band members to create dizzying vocal harmonies in a song whichcelebrates the savage nature of man, and advocates the expression ofinner, suppressed primalisms. By the halfway mark, the song experiencesa radical break with structure and turns into a seething echo chamberof wicked guitar improvisation. The final track is also by far thestrangest, the eight-minute title track, which creates a hypnoticwhirlpool of electric fuzz guitar over which Derek Noy narrates ingreat detail a ritual human sacrifice with a zeal that would set H.P.Lovecraft's hair on end. Mice and Rats in the Loft is uneasylistening at its finest, and Breathless' first-ever CD reissue does anadmirable job of reproducing the cover art in their foldout digipack.The booklet contains new liner notes by David Tibet, which should comeas no surprise, as the influence of this album can certainly be felt inCurrent 93 efforts such as Thunder Perfect Mind and Tamlin.Anyone interested would be advised to pick up a copy of this limitedreissue before this masterpiece fades back into obscurity once again.
albums from the British progressive folk scene of theearly 1970s. Right up there with classics like Comus' First Utterance and Simon Finn's Pass the Distance, Jan Dukes De Grey's 1971 LP Mice and Rats in the Loftis a brilliant work of psychedelic folk with a seething undercurrent ofmalevolence. Apparently having learned a lesson from the artistic andcommercial failure of their first LP, 1970's Sorcerers on theNova label, the duo of Derek Noy and Michael Bairstow enlisted drummerDenis Conlan, and quickly disposed of all notions of pop songcraft towhich they might have initially aspired. Instead, they recorded thedistinctly uncommercial 19-minute sidelong "Sun Symphonica," abreathtaking, dynamic work of epic genius, fusing together at leastfive separate musical movements into an unfolding narrative that beginswith a hippie paean to the sun and proceeds through progressivelydarker and more twisted realms. The instrumental bridges arebrilliantly conceived, referencing the medieval idiom popular inBritish folk of this period, but impregnating it with an energy thatsmolders with intensity and immediacy. Effortlessly wielding 12-stringguitar, violin, cello, flute, clarinet, recorder, harmonica and adizzying assortment of percussion, the trio plays with all the poise ofan experienced jazz ensemble, but produces something altogether heavierand more psychedelic, as if Amon Düül II had restricted themselves toacoustic instruments and decided to compose a soundtrack to The Wicker Man.As the "Sun Symphonica" trudges on through its many moods and phases,it gradually becomes clear that a distinctly pagan formula is at work,and the solar imagery is quickly eclipsed by its more primordialcounterpart: the devil in the form of dead, bloated corpses coveredwith maggots rotting under the intense noonday sun. By the 15-minutemark, the track is a swirling maelstrom of simmering instrumentalfragments flying around the stereo channels in a lunatic dance, as the"sunshine" mantra returns once more, where in a savage irony it hasbeen transformed into a terrifying hex. Unfortunately, the album neveragain reaches the maniacal heights of Side A, but where it does go isnearly as fascinating. "Call of the Wild" utilizes the voices of allthree band members to create dizzying vocal harmonies in a song whichcelebrates the savage nature of man, and advocates the expression ofinner, suppressed primalisms. By the halfway mark, the song experiencesa radical break with structure and turns into a seething echo chamberof wicked guitar improvisation. The final track is also by far thestrangest, the eight-minute title track, which creates a hypnoticwhirlpool of electric fuzz guitar over which Derek Noy narrates ingreat detail a ritual human sacrifice with a zeal that would set H.P.Lovecraft's hair on end. Mice and Rats in the Loft is uneasylistening at its finest, and Breathless' first-ever CD reissue does anadmirable job of reproducing the cover art in their foldout digipack.The booklet contains new liner notes by David Tibet, which should comeas no surprise, as the influence of this album can certainly be felt inCurrent 93 efforts such as Thunder Perfect Mind and Tamlin.Anyone interested would be advised to pick up a copy of this limitedreissue before this masterpiece fades back into obscurity once again.
