Best Days Are Surely Ahead
Upon hearing No-Man singer, Tim Bowness’s second solo effort, Abandoned Dancehall Dreams, there are aspects familiar to all No-Man fans: Bowness’s breathy vocals and the sparse piano arrangements. The similarities are to be expected, as this was a failed attempt at a new No-Man record. Still, this is different. Every lyric, phrase and arrangement has a purpose that seems to convey the loneliness and resignation of the characters, as they were nostalgic for a better time when dancehalls were the main focus of their lives.
The loneliness, nostalgia and resignation of the characters is portrayed cinematically through three elements: the vocals, lyrics and the instrumentation. Bowness’s sings his part like a method actor. His phrasing is perfect. He allows the lyrics to breathe and lets the listener live the experience of the characters. Similarly, the space that he gives the lines is symbolic of the emptiness in the character’s lives and drives the point home. Lastly, Bowness’s signature vocals (nearly devoid of melody) convey the character’s exhaustion with their current situation. While all of this creates the mood of the environment, the lyrics paint the pictures of the characters.
“Smiler at 50” tells the story of a woman who used to be “a girl the dad’s could laugh with” and had “a face just right for first kiss,” but now “she eats dinner alone.” While “The Warm-Up Man Forever,” tells the story of a man who will never be the famous rock star that we wanted and doesn’t “want to face the people” only to “end up broken at there feet.” These characters are lonely an unfulfilled.
There is also an anxiety within the loneliness that is shown through the music. The anxiety of the warm-up man is shown through the fast paced drumming, provided by King Crimson drummer Pat Mastelotto, that makes the song feel as though it is running towards a dead end. Similarly, in “Smiler at 50,” there is a dissonant piano chord that signifies some of the best and most chaotic electric guitar work of the album. While the song’s sequel, “Smiler at 52,” brilliantly deals with the anxieties and banalities of modern life through the use of sparse electronica.
In between all of the anxieties, there are moments of pure joy. “Waterfoot” is the most distinctive song on the album, which makes sense because it is the only song that was written specifically for the album and was a collaboration with contemporary composer, Andrew Keeling. What resulted was layered acoustic guitars, string arrangements, an electronic bridge and the use of a xylophone melody that told the story of a girl, who had anxieties about her life, but “faced the fears inside her” and “knew what she had to do.” There is an unbridled joy in the song that only happens in one other: “Songs of Distant Summers.” There is no hesitation, “just joy in what you found” and the building string arrangement makes the listener feel like something great is happening. In these songs, Bowness proves that he does happiness just as well as despair.
The only emotion that doesn’t work well on the album is anger, which is featured in the last two songs, “I Fought Against the South” and “Beaten by Love.” Bowness’s breathy monotone that worked so well in conveying the apathy of his previous characters, doesn’t work here. He is not angry enough. The last two songs are what make this specular album falter.
When you hear the album the first time, it will sound as if you’ve heard it before. The truth is you hadn’t. While you may not have heard it, or anything like it before; you will want to hear it again, many, many times.
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