|
|
|
|
     
Gentle Ben and his
Sensitive Side - 'The Sober Light Of Day'
spooky018
Reviews
DB Magazine - Adelaide
One of my favourites albums of last year was Gentle Ben &
His Sensitive Side's stellar debut 'The Beginning Of The End', so I was dead
keen to get my hands on the band's follow-up album, 'The Sober Light Of Day'.
But I was also worried: how could they possibly top their smouldering debut's
gritty riffs, heart-torn howled vocals and bestial rock'n'roll? 3PBS FM website - Australia
When Gentle Ben & His Sensitive
Side released their first album, The Beginning of the End, in 2004, it was to
minimal fanfare and few knew much of the band aside from Ben Corbett being one
half of the strutting, singing rock and roll brothers from sixfthick. There’s a solid line between showing your influences and slavish rip-offs – at least, there used to be. Gentle Ben and his Sensitive Side stay on the right side of it. While digging the swamp blues and jagged edges of Nick Cave, Iggy Pop and the Beasts of Bourbon, the build their own sound. A lot of this is to do with Ben’s charismatic vocal performance: unhinged (“The Dogs of Valparaiso”), energetic, and carried by a black sense of humour (“Help Me Make it Down the Street”, “Carpark”). A Spencer P.Jones cover “Execution Day”, is a nice nod to the Oz-swamp influences, with touches of old-school garage and boogie in the guitars of Dylan McCormack (brother of Dave). Played with a bare-bones sense of economy that keeps it lean and mean. KM I – 94 Bar. Sydney
Into the half light and smokey
haze of a darkened and wet street emerges a gaunt and disturbed figure. He's all
crumpled lounge suit, glaring red eyes and disheveled hair. He carries a broken
gin bottle in his hand. There's a smell of what might be cheap whiskey on his
breath and maybe a substance-affected sway in his step. His sweat
is profuse and foul smelling. No real way of telling what reduced him to this
state, but there's no mistaking the murderous intent as he stumbles up, waves
the jagged glass in your face. There's a chill down your spine as it stops a
centimetre short of your face. He asks: "Have you heard my album on Triple Jay?"
The Age “EG” When Hendrix intoned ". . . and you will never hear surf music again" on Third Stone From the Sun, records like this are probably what he had in mind. The truly magnificent guitar work of Dylan McCormack is liberally drenched in Dick Dale tremolo but that's as close to the beach as these concrete crashers get. Gentle Ben Corbett and his boys are midnight ramblers, with Corbett casting himself in the role of world-weary bar singer, a seedy crooner with David Bowie pipes who's seen the wrong side of too many sunrises. He's not a bad man, it's just that he'll get drunk, words will be said, punches will be thrown. It's a theme he visits frequently, none more compelling than in the ballads Help Me Make it Down the Street, Carpark and Summertime. The band, completed by Trevor Ludlow on bass, Nick Naughton on drums and judicial use of keyboard fills and washes, goes all out and Corbett channels his SixFt Hick inner monster on the mighty rocker The Dogs of Valparaiso, and there's also a supple cover of Spencer P. Jones' Execution Day. It's a tight mix of light and darkness. – JEFF GLORFELD FasterLouder.com - Australia When Gentle Ben and His Sensitive Side’s first album, The Beginning Of The End was released, it heralded the arrival something truly different on the Australian scene. Sure, people knew that the singer from the legendary SixFtHick, and understood that there’d be some level of theatrical oddness involved, but few expected the level of observational cabaret that the band would bring to the scene. Their first disc unveiled the group’s penchant for exploring the sorts of tunes usually relegated to late-night AM country radio, to lost broadcasts, and marked them as a group with bucket loads of potential. Happily, their second release has proven that the glowing reviews weren’t bullshit: the band is back, leaner and more suave than ever. There’s growth on this disc, and it’s aided the Sensitive Side’s whip-smart tunes no end. The last year has been hard on the band’s touring schedule. They’ve spent most of the time – save for the odd excursion into the limelight – sequestered away, working on songs for the new album. Compared to 2004 (when the band shared stages with Rocket Science, Calexico and The Handsome Family, amongst others) 2005 has been very quiet for the quartet, spending chunks of time in Melbourne’s Atlantis Studio, under the sound guidance of producer Loki Lockwood. And while it was created in time away from the stage, it’s obvious that the band’s rigorous touring schedule has impacted on the performances on The Sober Light Of Day. Tracks from their debut (such as I Don’t Think She Loves Me and I Can’t Hurt You) hinted at the sort of explosive stop-start power that the band could corral. It’s that power – the acknowledgement of the role of tension in the tunes – that’s been honed mightily since the last release. The first album sounded like a band finding its feet, while this one is a record of a band that’s rehearsed so rigorously that they’re perfectly in sync – something that’s vital if you’re in a musical concern that, in a live setting, must follow the whims of a theatrically-inclined front man. There’s a sense, much more than before, that the Sensitive Side are not only comfortable with the idea of exploring the tunes, but that they’re relishing it. There’s a distinct sense of play through the album, of experimentation within some particularly-defined areas. This is perhaps most obvious in the album’s longest track, Summertime, a tune of a singer’s loss, which takes wordless lamentation to extended lengths. At the other extreme, songs like Punishment and lead single The Dogs of Valparaiso show that the quick-change dynamic of the band’s been refined, and that the big beat’s been embraced wholeheartedly, and embellished with flick-knives. The Sober Light Of Day is an album that sounds, lyrically, like it’s come from England. That’s not to say that the subject matter isn’t Australian – not at all. Rather, it seems that Ben Corbett’s lyrics are of a style that echoes Tindersticks, Morrissey or Pulp’s Jarvis Cocker. The examination of life that’s written here is particularly kitchen-sink, in a warts-and-all manner that’s at once confession and parody. The focus here is on the seamy side of life, of extremity, of the nastiness that surfaces when the fun’s over and the velvet curtains have been drawn. It’s easy to laugh some of it off, but the disconcerting note that the songs strike – and there’s more than a few across this disc – linger on. It’s something that overseas bands seem to be a little more au fait with than locals, so it’s good to see a local act embracing that sense of lopsidedness. The thing that appeals most about this album is the fact that the music is ostensibly chipper, happy music. It’s accomplished, with a certain amount of sultriness. But it’s this confection that makes the sting of the lyrical content that much more pronounced. It’s something that’s got a long history in music, and the nearest touchstone (aside from Pulp, or Morrissey, that is) is something like The Ronettes’ Be My Baby. Elements of Phil Spector’s production style appear on the album – spacious sounding songs, moments where guitars ramp into walls, backing vocals that seem ripped from the past - but what appears more noticeably is the mixture of a pleading, hopeless, diminished-strength vocal linked with sugary pop music. It worked for The Ronettes, and it’s working for Gentle Ben; perhaps more effectively, as the disc’s exploration of male characters in periods of breakdown, or in the titular sober light of day, seems at once somehow more pathetic, and more intriguing. The puppy dog-eyed, over-eager offers of love are present here, as they were in the Ronettes’ day, but they’re tempered with the barely-constrained (if at all) violence of the flawed male. It makes for a breathtaking examination of men at extremity. And as such, it puts a lot of attention on the band’s singer. Thankfully, Ben Corbett’s performative streak is broad enough to make the feelings ring true, rather than come across as some kind of overplayed cabaret role. The band behind him – guitarist Dylan McCormack, bassist Trevor Ludlow and drummer Nick Naughton – are up to the job of supporting such an endeavour. The two elements – band and singer – are obviously more enmeshed here than they were on their last outing, as the arrangements in the tunes are a lot more complex, with a South American strain making itself felt a little more forcefully than before. There’s a sharpened sense of clarity on display here, leaving the listener in no doubt that this is a formidable group, working at full strength. The Song Of Drowning Men sets the scene for the rest of the album. Opening with insistent drums and a sort of Cramps/spy movie crossover riff, the story of social failure kicks proceedings off with a defiantly sexy hip-shake. The song also highlights the fact that the imagery in Corbett’s lyrics is much more pronounced on this release. The spin-cycle deaths of men attempting to measure up socially, stifled by music and perfume, are painted in fine detail from the outset:
There’s an ocean on the dance
floor It also, importantly, sets up the band as something close to a house band for tragedy. Gentle Ben is someone observing these dissolute characters, someone close to the action but not part of it. Yet, later in the disc, first person narrative comes to the fore. The line between participant and voyeur is blurred, and this sort of occlusion – carried on in lyrics which often only obliquely hint at what’s going on, such as the possible new start (or burial) implied in Filling In The Ditch – is key to what the band’s trying to do. It forces you to listen harder; to ascertain whether the buoyancy of the music or the dark velvet of the lyrics carry the true meaning of the song. It creates an internal tension that’s crucial to the band’s sound.
The First Song Of The Last Day Of The Rest Of Your Life
follows, and it’s sort of like an amphetamine-fuelled version of Pulp’s Bar
Italia, albeit a version containing both psychedelic offshoots and Elvis
Costello-speedy panache. It is, essentially, a reminder of the Oscar Wilde
truism about being in the gutter and looking at the stars – except for the fact
that in The aforementioned Morrissey similarity comes into play with Help Me Make It Down The Street, one of the album’s most appealing songs. It could be something as simple as the fact that Morrissey does have something of a Spector-production fetish, but it seems that the guitar lines from this tune, layered over a bruiser’s warning of just what love for him will entail, could’ve come from what’s undeniably that artist’s bittersweet epic Vauxhall & I. Except here, the rough trade is real, immediate and threatening:
And if any man looks sideways Of course, all the machismo here means nothing; for while the narrator’s a thug, he can’t make it through alone:
Darling, give me hope
Oh, on some enchanted eve Carpark is another tune that takes violence as a key concern. Beginning with one of the most immediately descriptive verses I’ve heard in a while,
Cut adrift in whiskey mist the song continues an examination of a jilted lover, a fool. Sparse instruments – bass, acoustic guitar and cannily-placed organ – underscore the abandonment the speaker feels. But, true to form, the shadow of weakness overcome with violent intent makes an appearance, with a chilling prediction of how the evening’s embarrassment will end:
This is not the place
But I will show you Sounds in poor taste? Strangely, it’s not. It’s an examination of a character that most of us would recognise, either from keeping eyes open after a long night on the piss, or from personal experience. But it’s someone who isn’t usually given a chance to talk, someone whose viewpoint isn’t explored in rock. Not usually. That’s where Gentle Ben and His Sensitive Side shine – giving voice to people who we’d rather not hear from, and proving that their stories can be poignant and affecting, even while they remain morally reprehensible. Similarly, the S&M messages of Punishment – a song which rides on a palm-muted guitar line, before flowering into a wonderful, sparkling guitar riff, replete with angelic backing chorus – explore the mindset of a controlling person, who could as easily be God as the singer himself. Lines that speak of whipping, of entrapment and duplicity are used to explore seaminess in a non-seamy musical setting, and it’s intriguing. Elsewhere, The Shimmering Hand looks at a narrator that’s
Firm but fairly unconcerned before moving onto the sort of nameless horrors that he’s carried out in the name of The Shimmering Hand. Is it a crime cabal, a bunch of religious zealots, or something more sinister? It’s never adequately explained, and while the Eastern tinges to the tune carry their own suggestions, it’s refreshing to hear something that lets you draw your own conclusions, rather than stating the case plainly. It signifies bravery on behalf of the band, at least, to firstly believe that the tunes are strong enough to tell their own open-ended stories, and secondly, to let them do exactly that. The song that underscores the band’s security in their sound is Execution Day, a cover of the Beasts of Bourbon tune. In the hands of the Sensitive Side, it’s turned from a dirty, gritty rock song into something completely different. Martinis wait in the background. We’re at some kind of Caribbean resort, at a spy convention, on a tropical island. There are low-key machinations afoot, with vocals remaining smooth until the inevitable eruption of passion – which subsides as quickly as it came. It’s more threatening than the original, perhaps because of the restraint that’s on display: like a mask hiding what’s underneath, this version of the song conveys real feelings of tension, of uncertainty, and they’re communicated beautifully through McCormack’s guitar-playing. The album ends with an off-the-cuff tune, Plaza De Armas. Written in the studio, the tale of a new life through drug trafficking provides the perfect early-morning stumbling-out tune to close the album. It brings a feeling of ambivalence with it, that’s a perfect palate-cleanser from preceding tune Summertime’s focused despair. There’s a feeling of hope, of new beginnings, but they’re entwined with the feeling that what’s just transpired has fucked things up irrevocably. It links with the downbeat ending of the band’s debut, and brings the song cycle nicely to an end, leaving uncertainty and a certain dose of regret, of faded glamour that’s hard to resist. The artwork of this release: queasy greens and collapsed bodies – fits the tone of the album well. But the key component, I feel, is the inlay photograph: in it, a sweat-slicked Corbett stands onstage, limp, looking off into the distance, engrossed in his song and the thoughts they bring. The faraway look in the eyes turns songs into recollections, rather than creations, and lends the endeavour the feeling of honesty that’s crucial to its success. Gentle Ben and His Sensitive Side are back. They’ve returned in a form so suave, so sinuous that it’s doubtful that their equal exists in their country. There’s keen-eyed observation here that’s quite rare, and quite searching. You’re never sure if it’s a gigantic pisstake, or the most plain-speaking album you’ve ever heard, but one thing’s for sure: The Sober Light Of Day is much, much closer to the electric windmilling sweatbox that is Gentle Ben live. This is an album that crackles with energy, and demands to be heard. Or else. Lock up your mothers, and give fulsome praise that Gentle Ben and His Sensitive Side exists. After all, someone in this country’s got to take care of the dirty work. And it sure as hell ain’t gonna be any of those ‘70s revivalist groups, is it? Sometimes, only a silver-tongued, swivel-hipped bruiser and his crew of reprobates are the only men for the job. Invite them in, but watch out for the sock full of pool balls. The world awaits, Ben, so sally forth and break its heart. Luke
Beat Magazine - Melbourne Who says rock'n'roll is uncouth, loud, boorish and moronic? Gentle Ben and His Sensitive Side certainly never did. The band's new album, The Sober Light of Day is a work of sophistication, of emotional extremes and underlying rock'n'roll excellence. It combines the raucous rock sensibilities of anyperson's local grotty rock venue, the literary imagination of Ernest Hemingway and the cultural sophistication of a Latino romantic. At its most quiet, reserved moments – the heartfelt (almost power-ballad) Help Me Make it Down the Street – the album oozes emotional tenderness. But when the band is stirred – just listen to the arresting Dogs of Valparaiso for conclusive evidence – heaven help anyone caught in its manic gaze. Dylan McCormack's licks are worth bottling – simple yet harsh, subtle yet nasty – his guitar work on The Song of Drowning Men reaches levels of enchantment rarely encountered in the rock genre, Filling in the Ditch lies in a mood of sultry flamenco rock while The Shimmering Hand travels effortlessly across the turbulent peaks and troughs of the rock landscape. Ben Corbett's daylight sobriety is full of vivid imagery, of scenes of depravity and the inadequacies of the human condition; Carpark Corbett croons "Cut adrift in whiskey mist then/You sailed by like the Mary Celeste/Slicing up the parquetry in a drunken/slow dance with hand up your skirt/and your hand down his pants". There's also a cover of Spencer P Jones' Execution Day; Gentle Ben's version is even more haunting than Jones' solo version (without purporting to be as rocking as the Beasts' take), eliciting every last drop of the song's threatening, romantic undercurrent. I'm still not convinced Gentle Ben is either gentle, or sensitive, in the clichéd sense of either term. But The Sober of Light of Day is a work of a band that's in touch with its inner self, and that inner self is full of rock'n'roll spirit. Patrick Emery Rave Magazine - Brisbane Gentle Ben & His Sensitive Side serve up a second helping of their dark, barely contained energies on The Sober Light Of Day. The music is equal parts ‘50s rockabilly and The Birthday Party, guitarist Dylan McCormack providing the nimble, reverb-y riffs and the rhythm section of Nick Naughton and Trevor Ludlow anchoring the songs in stylish but unobtrusive fashion. Meanwhile Gentle Ben himself displays several facets of his enigmatic persona: drink-sodden crooner on Help Me Make It Down The Street; apoplectic fire-and-brimstone maniac on the snarling Dogs Of Valparaiso; jilted troubadour spying his ex and her new man from the stage on the gentle ballad Summertime (as I sang your favourite song a desert crept into the bar). Most surprising perhaps is Punishment, where Ben marries a jaunty, accomplished pop melody to a hellish lyrical theme: I whipped your back into a mess of bloody stripes. Now that’s scary. Brett CollingwoodInpress – Melbourne Gentle Ben and His Sensitive Side may have taken a step back from the live scene for most of 2005, but the group are likely to return triumphant thanks to the release of their second album The Sober Light Of Day. The Albumis a marked improvement on the groups debut The Beginning of the End and showcases a band with a more developed and fully realised sound. Like the band name itself, it’s clear Gentle Ben is a fairly sensitive bloke. Lyricly the album is filled with tales of unrequited love, depression, punishment and general adversity, but that’s not to say it isn’t enjoyable. With strong support by Dylan McCormack’s rhythmic guitar chords, Trevor Ludlow’s temperate bass lines and Nick Naughton’s gentle drum beats, there’s something quite cathartic about Gentle Ben’s music that makes it strongly appealing. One of the best features of this album is the groups ability at building tension in their songs; opener Song of Drowning Men is a perfit example. It builds up slowly before offering just a slight release with the chours and pulling back again. By third track Help Me Make It , the group fully lets go – whilst it works, like many situations in life, the build up is often better than the end result. Fortunately, things are back on track with The Dogs of Valaparaiso. Musically, Punishment seems the most up beat and radio friendly of the songs and it also marks a moment when Corbett takes on a quality with his vocals that is curiously reminiscent of Javis Cocker, an aspect that reoccurs later in the album albeit less obviously. Moving along and Carpark offers a relaxing hiatus before the album switches back to its tensioned filled beginning with Execution Day. Gentle Ben and his Sensitive Side have created a strong album with The Sober Light Of Day that includes just the right dose of sadness and rhythm to sympathise with the most depleted of souls. Nicola Taylor
Time Off - Brisbane As the children grow and multiply, they will consume the generation that lay before them. In this case, it’s a generation filled with the sound of Wall Of Voodoo and the Beasts Of Bourbon, now spawned and fully formed into one Gentle Ben and his (less and less with each day) Sensitive Side. Building upon his 2004 debut, the pop and rock takes over here from his country-soaked beginnings. Filled with songs that strike like a whiskey glass over the head, it’s interspersed with torch songs that feel like the open wounds left from said whiskey glass. But as it’s always been, it’s Ben’s wrought voice that melts even the hardest heart (‘Help Me Make It Down The Street’, ‘Summertime’). He sounds like a lost soul with no time for redemption. For all its good, The Sober Light… could use some restraint. That is, unless these four boys wish to continue their slow transformation into Ben’s previous SixFtHick incarnation.
|
(Johnny
Morricone)