Album review: Mr. Arc-Eye (Under a Cellophane Sky) by The Very Things GXL
Primed in the far corner of the neglected carpark and immersed in the onyx blackness, save for the winking chrome – lurked that Cortina.
The dimly lit bar is framed by the expansive window, exaggerated by the coffin-interior-black-night-sky and the conspiratorial darkness. The mise-en scene outlined by the window frame, a homage to Edward Hopper. Very little appears to be happening in the bar, to the casual observer. The barman leans on his elbows and stares straight ahead, aware he needs to mind his own business.
Hardly noticeable from the outside carpark – lurking in the corner of the bar, aloof yet intense – sit a very familiar quatrain of miscreants. Nonchalantly, the main protagonist admires the tomato-shaped sauce bottle* through his ever-present shades.
Unapologetically, the jukebox bursts into life like a musical Molotov; the frontage lit up like a welder’s torch in the gloom. Due to the bass trope creating a new ambience the couple who had been enjoying each other’s company…left, quickly. “We have to get out of here!” Defiantly the track continued unabated; as sinister as a determined stalker.
The opening bass line of the next track selected deceives and seduces in equal measure. The quizzical title stares out from the jukebox – “I don’t know about you” – and does little to alleviate the sense of menace. The guitar chords grind and grate like a drained gearbox. The imploring James Brown-esque incantations arouse the curiosity of most. Incessant symbols play out like rain hitting the window.
Anxiously, the barman retreats to the cellar for sanctuary and floods the downstairs with light.
A rasping voice introduces Mr. Arc-eye, a track that makes the whole room jump. “1…2…3…4.” The tempo as upbeat as any Booker T. could forge. (The barfly who had been slumped, swayed almost upright, and began to choreograph an appreciative routine out of inebriated respect.) The strangled voice from the speakers casts a hex over the room. Was that a haunting harmonica accompanying the track? Bass runs and snares kept the rhythm as tight as a bully’s grip. The tinkling piano lets us know we were being played with. Signatory horns, a flourish of brass, glissade into the playout…the manic laughter only added to the moment.
As if exhausted by the very music the barfly concertinas back into their booth.
In the corner of the bar, the silent witnesses to the proceedings seem oddly content (sic). Getting to their feet they make their way to the door, their reticent smiles at odds with their demeanour. These are the very things that make these nights memorable.
*form follows function
By: The Swilgate Scuttler