Real Tuesday Weld
The London Book Of The Dead
By Jeff Ehrbar
The London Book of the Dead is actually very good — if you can see through its cleverness. The fourth CD by Londoner Stephen Coates shines (at times) not in his mastery of blending modern pop with samples of old jazz, symphony music and re-recorded instruments (what the enclosed PR release calls “antique beat”), but in his ability to craft a good pop song. The best songs on The London Book of the Dead come toward the end. “Last Words,” is a pensive but upbeat synthesizer-driven number about a break-up: “you say you loved me/and I kinda believe it/but these days/what does it mean?” No flashy cut and paste job here, just straight enticing British fare in the mode of Portishead and Prefab Sprout. Also engaging is “Dorothy Parker Blue,” where beautiful woodwinds and acoustic guitar shine in this Sufjan Stevens-like ode to the American writer: “Dorothy Parker always knew/what you’d say and what you’d do/Dorothy Parker got you through/the politic of being blue.” The swirling klezmer feel of “Ruth Roses and Revolver” and the narrator’s near-nihilistic tone (“let’s make a film/it will be such fun/all you need is a girl and gun”) evoke comparisons to Leonard Cohen’s “First We Take Manhattan.”
The best use of Coates’ sampling is “Bringing the Body Back Home.” Piano, bells, flute, trumpet, trombone, Moog and strings are re-recorded and arranged, adding a nostalgic low fidelity flavor to the metaphor of a break-up as a cease-fire: “lay down your flag and gun/cause this war will never be won/you’ll find another one/so try fight what you’ve become.” Often Coates uses his jazz sampling to create a pleasant throwback feel. While “It’s a Wonderful Li(f)e” is a slightly humorous, up-tempo pledge of loyalty and good tidings, “Kix” is a blithe take on Cole Porter (“You’re just too good to be true/The booze and pills/the cheap thrills/mean more to me than you do.”) “I Love London” is a bit amusing, with Coates describing “the bohos, bankers and the bourgeoisie” against a Sunday afternoon saunter (although be suspicious of anyone who uses the word “bourgeoisie”).
When the gadgetry compensates for the songwriting, The London Book of the Dead becomes too hip for its own good. While Coates tries to pass off many of the songs as eccentric or profoundly simple, some numbers are simply incomplete. At its worst, The London Book of the Dead reminds you of Robin Hitchcock trying to pass off quirkiness as substance. Gurgling synthesizers and crackling old recordings try to give the lyric of “Blood Sugar Love” a status it doesn’t deserve. The opening number, “Blood Sugar Love,” nearly poisoned me against the rest of the CD. On “I Believe,” Coates is both flippant and annoying in his embrace of contradictions: “I believe in monogamy/I believe in promiscuity/I believe in love.” “Cloud Cookooland” has an identity crisis. Although the arrangement of keyboards and scat jazz is one you can’t (unfortunately) get out of your head, the song doesn’t know what it wants to be. A parody? A pop song? The last song, “Apart,” throws off the rhythm of CD: after a succession of thoughtful, engaging songs, does Coates need a 1940s Andrews Sisters-like arrangement to close it? It’s when the technological window dressing is kept to a minimum, The London Book of the Dead is alive and vibrant.
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