Guillemots -Through theWindowpane

Tue 12th Dec, 2006 in Music Reviews

As children we learnt that the backs of our wardrobes are frustratingly solid, failing to give way to the magical worlds that were promised in books and movies. No matter how many holes you made you always just found a wall behind that blocked your way. Now there’s a way to find that magic world that won’t require the use of a hammer and the risk of being denied dessert for weeks. All you need to do is simply peer through the Guillemots’ window pane.

The Guillemots have sent critics hurtling towards their thesauruses’ to seek out the wildest of hyperbolic phases. They were highly tipped to take out the Mercury Music Prize, ultimately losing out to the massive hype of the Arctic Monkeys. Yet the two bands are a world apart. The Monkeys tout tabloid reports of low level crims and drinking shenanigans in the North; their sound and image is closely tied to council flats and greasy spoons.

Yet the Guillemots are wildly unplaceable. Their soaring epic sound comes from everywhere at once. They are certainly a diverse lot; the Guillemots are English singer and classically trained pianist Fyfe Dangerfield, Brazilian guitarist MC Lord Magrao, Scottish percussionist Greig Stewart (aka Rican Caol) and Canadian double bassist Aristazabal Hawkes.

For a band that share their name with a sea-fairing bird, the Guillemots have a suitably expansive soaring sound, always hovering above without ever coming in to land. There’s the reckless genre melding of early Beta Band, the wide eyed innocence of the Flaming Lips, the vocal reach of Rufus Wainwright, the playful pop of Bjork’s Debut, the ambition of Radiohead, the white boy soul of Dexy’s Midnight Runners.

When hearing a band for the first time it’s usually possible to come up with a formula to roughly explain their sound. For example Arctic M The Bracket + I Should Coco + ½(Original Pirate Material). Remember: these are rough equations; the kind that you’d draw on the back of a beer soaked coaster. But there will never be a coaster big enough to contain the elaborate nuclear physics contained in the ‘Guillemots Explanation Equationtm’ .

That’s why this album is such an inspiring listen – there’s constant feeling that it could plummet back to earth at any moment – it’s almost too ambitious, too epic, too spectacular. It’s impossible to discuss or dismiss them without resorting to the most ludicrous of phases and comments. They will be a band that divides listeners what some will hear as excess others will hear as excellence, pure genius as pretentious gibberish.

Their From the Cliffs EP was a stunning collection and featured two of this year finest moments of wild pop ambition. Made Up Lovesong #43 and Trains To Brazil being two of the most perfectly orchestral pop masterpieces ever recorded. In each of these four minute tunes there’s more invention and inspiration than most bands muster over a career. Trains To Brazil is grand enough is redeem the usually trite affirmation ‘life affirming’. Usually that simply means saccharine and cloying, but if you can deny the power of this gem – call an ambulance immediately.

The lyrics of Trains To Brazil reference the shooting of a Brazilian man who was suspected of plotting a terrorist attack in the days after the London subway attack. The date of the actual terrorist attacks –  7th of July – is the birthday of Guillemots lead singer Fyfe Dangerfield. In response to the tragedy Guillemots have produced a rousing joyous soul-pop epic – a full opera of life in four minutes.

/I’m just grateful to be facing the day/
/’cause days don’t get you far when your gone/

‘Redwings’ single headedly undoes the crimes committed against the bruised ballad in the post-Coldplay world. If James Blunt has murdered your love for the charms of the ‘nakedly-romantic-sensitive-singer-songwriter’ genre, this will bring you back. Blunt and co are stodgily predictable, but the Guillemots’ forays into melodramatic songwriting are as alien and tear inducing as the most bike-flying, ‘phone-homing’ of creatures.

Quieter moments, such as the drawn out If The World Ends, threaten to simply drift away. Taken on their own they are gloriously beautiful songs, but they are overshadowed by the more fantastical of Guillemot flights. They are uneven, but that’s mainly because their majestical highs would overwhelm almost any artist.

Closing track Sao Paolo has it both ways; rising from a romantic string-laden swoon to a rousing crescendo that bursts into an unexpected samba break before rounding out with classical bells stolen from the 1812 Overture. That may seem like long sentence – but the song is almost thirteen minutes long. It’s a sprawling tune that should be a mess of sounds, but it works. It works superbly.