Cromerzone 2025
Repainting their past, British dreamers progress towards alternative future to capture the rapture and retire.
THE SPORTS COMMENTATOR
And THE BANK MANAGER –
1977
It’s quite presumptuous on many a not-too-popular artist’s part to think there’s an interest in their early, unprofessional recordings, dubious sound quality be damned if self-defined historic value is supposed to reign supreme on such releases. But not for nothing The Curator has been Alistair Murphy’s nom de plume for years now, for that was what this British musician used to do for a living, career in arts allowing the veteran to evaluate even his own past. So when, during lockdown, the Cromer resident set about digitizing his entire oeuvre and uncovered his first opuses, laid down in the company of three other schoolboys, the old tapes didn’t seem to possess much appeal for wider audience – due to the teenagers amateurish delivery, rather than their limited flights of fantasy. Abandoning those ideas would feel both wasteful and disrespectful to the senior citizens’ happy memories, yet reliving the days of yore via playing the five pieces anew, with minimal compositional and lyrical tweaks, held a lot of allure for the quartet who remained in touch for decades.
To follow the band leader’s example, the foursome styled themselves after their jobs, adjusted the collective perspective and embarked on temporal travels, returning to 1977 with all the determination of youngsters and the gravitas of ambitious people who found success in different walks of life. Here’s the reason why shorter tracks and epic alike are simultaneously lush and dry in an English way, the intricacies of arrangements never overshadowing melodies that constantly shift focus to keep the listener riveted to the spot. There’s a sense of adventure from the moment Mike Wood’s acoustic strum and electric twang conspire with Mark Fletcher’s supple bass to sculpt the initially funky “TMS” in which Murphy’s unassuming voice and Ian Bolton’s piano stage a slightly histrionic sonic spectacle, where brass-stricken soul harmonies complement medieval polyphony most organically. As the fickle time signatures morph into psychedelic vista of “Exiled” which dissolves crystalline passages of ivories in sharp guitar riffs, solemnity and romanticism produce sentimental grandeur, but it can’t prepare the audience for the baroque-rock wonders of “To Break The Sun” where an a cappella intro and organ waves bring on – over and over again – vertiginously magical journey.
Once vigor and elegance trade places in the ensemble’s dynamic scope, this cruise into outer space will turn into a voyage into one’s inner cosmos, yet “City 9am” and “City 9pm” place the album’s aural picture in urban environs. And while the infectious folk sensibilities of the former defy tiring routines the lyrics spring from, and offset intense six-string figures that span a series of stereo images, the ruminative raga inflections and nigh on hymnal flow of the latter infuse the platter’s finale with sweet fatigue. A totally engrossing emotional trip, “1977” is immensely admirable.
*****
