Slipped disc #2 - The Twilight Singers’ diurnal quality

Neo? Nu? New? The word, in whatever variation - as far as the music mart remains so daft, dumb and dookie-like that is effortlessly flogged to increasingly ignorant public - is redundant and it only refers to re-recycling. Old formulae translated and repackaged for a dystopian youth de jour. It is frightening when you hear people claim Coldplay, Turin Brakes and The Darkness to be the best bands of this Brit moment?! Have these individuals had their ears waxed shut?

Or watching Linkin Park, Metallica, 50 Cent and Beyonce command all sales in the States or Dido, Kylie and the ‘Pop Idiots’ over here. Y’know, I wake up in the morning and Thank God, although more often pray, for rare and precious commodity known as - quality. There isn’t much going around and what there is is usually consumed by such refined number you can’t but wonder if it is an exclusive club, like a First Class of intel?

There is data that some people are predisposed to diss pop appeal of Britney, Kylie, Robbie, Pink… It’s the old playground/High School question: The Beatles or The Stones? Blur or Oasis? Well, The Twilight Singers, actually. The man who led Afghan Whigs into some incredible albums, Greg Dulli is now back with ‘Blackberry Belle’, that simply defies any expectations and proves that he is still an under-appreciated jewel of music scene.

Gliding in slowly and more emo-spective, the first half of the album is a more gentle ride on a singer/songwriter’s wing. Towards the end the pace picks up to the level of some incredible funk-rock that neither Prince nor Sly Stone would disapprove of. Even the song titles suggested something rather piquant: ‘Teenage Wristband’, ‘St Gregory’, ‘Esta Noche’, ‘Decatur St’, ‘Papillion’…

The San Franciscan Dulli is so image lo-fi that the artwork hasn’t even got the tracklisting on the outside; you need to open the case or pull out the booklet where you can also follow/sing-along the lyrics.

‘Blackberry Belle’ is full of moving songs and arcane sounds; this mysterious chap quotes Jack London on the inlay’s back, which is pure treasure in our illiterate world.

8/10