Alexander HineCharlie Smyles and the Smyles (LINK)
Bender Bar, Northcote,
4/4/2008
A quote from Rumi came to me in an SMS just now:
He was asked once what to do about a young man doing some indecent act:
Rumi told them not to worry about it. “It just means he’s growing feathers. The dangerous case is a child who doesn’t engage in indecent acts, who then leaves the nest without feathers. One flap and the act has him.
I chuckled as I read it, and felt a blessing descend on my evening, and evening in which I go to see the mysterious Charlie Smyles play at the Bender Bar. I have met Charlie a few times previously, and I find him an intriguing character. I imagine him a man of moods, flights of strange mania and dark rifts of melancholy. But these are only inferences from a few short, drugged encounters in which I have discussed with him Nick Cave, Tom Waits, and the excellence of his dress sense.
On the tram ride to the city, I saw an entire tree torn up and dumped over the fence of a terrace house on Flinder’s Street. Wreckage from the 130km and hour winds that tore through the city only days before, turning the braches of otherwise picturesque trees into blunt and deadly weapons – threatening at every moment to fall and crush flat the tender, pink brains of any one of the stream of accountants, bankers, whores, children and hobos who passed below…
The Bender Bar was quiet when I arrived, just a handful of patrons murmuring quietly around an empty bar. I took a few photos while I waited for the barman to finish his smoke – the Bender is a dimly lit, cosy bar, illuminated entirely by soft pink and yellow lamps at odd angles. At the rear, one of the walls features a massive, almost frightening, wall-hanging showing a grotty Asian boy (Tibetan, maybe) in festive, traditional garb – blowing a pink bubble of gum from his dirt-stained lips. Quite intriguing.
Having bought my wine, I was driven outside by a change in music – All Tomorrow’s Parties: a song that might have been okay if it weren’t so leadenly sung by the sexless and lobotomised voice of Nico – and ran into Charlie, shrouded in a 1930’s style coat and hat and a nightmare of an op-shop tie. Finally, the judgements could fly thick as arrows through the night.
It turned out that this was not a simple gig. Instead it involved poetry readings, Djs, several solo artists and a cheesy-as-fuck Jim Morrison based poster, which informed us that this was Feast of Friends featuring Scarlett Cooke, Mild Sparrow, Queeny Cups, Charlie Smyles, spoken word by Kris Allison and DJ Zaziz. I had been tricked, hoodwinked, and I was in no mood for such a variegated and potentially tedious assembly, thank sweet Zombie Jesus Charlie was up first.
Smyles was accompanied by some every fine saxophone, I will get that out of the way now by saying that it perfectly complemented the songs with smooth and tasteful blues lines – a great combination. On to the songs. The first was a standout, with lyrics about gypsies, women and heartache, sung in a voice and style reminiscent of early Tom Waits records. The tortured refrain – “some things should be left unsaid” – held beautifully aloft by a simple chord progression, splashes with flurries of blues licks. The fourth and last songs were also particularly good, being a strange, slow, dreamy, haunting version of Summertime melting out of a Fur Elise introduction and the infectiously singable and distinctly Melbournian Last Tram Home, respectively.
The entire set was of a high calibre: Smyles is an honest performer who seems genuinely committed to his art, both lyrically and musically, which lends his better songs a moving and, at times, spine tingling quality. In some songs the vocal line became overshadowed by the piano and sax (but this may have had something to do with the bad sound system obscuring many of the lyrics) and the connecting dialogue between songs was often mumbled to the point of obscurity (a notable exception being Smyles’ desperate plea, “Please buy my CD, I need sales. I wouldn’t say this if I wasn’t broke” – that was crystal clear). But these are minor criticisms, having as much to do with the speakers and the mix as with Smyles’ occasionally stock melodies and nonchalant stage presence.
If I permit myself one criticism of Smyles that is more fundamental, and I do, it is that he wears his influences a little too much on his sleeve for my taste. Smyles has grown many feathers but, perhaps, not yet left the nest. That is: the songs are good, the chops are solid, he sings well, he writes well – it’s all there and yet, for me, his music lacks a certain completeness. As if Smyles’ influences - of which I’ll hazard a guess Tom Waits is the biggest - have not been fully absorbed and worked into a unique style but, instead, hover above the style and the songwriting as unattainable spectres of perfection.
Then again, maybe that’s just the beer and stimulants talking. Smyles is undoubtedly an artist to watch – he has talent as a performer and a composer, he has soul, a great voice and an impeccable dress sense. Check him out, and for God’s sake buy his CD – the man’s broke!
…
When the set ends I move outside and start writing in the present tense. Queeny Cups is up next and I observe her discreetly as I talk with Charlie, drink my Agwa, and smoke other people’s tobacco. Queeny Cups reminds me of Joni Mitchell, but without the great woman’s grace or genius. Queeny’s songs have a jagged beauty about them – schizoid chord progressions, powerful voice, interesting lyrics – but let’s face it: they’re far too strange for a teeny-bopper like me. And, anyway, at this point my mind is drifting from music to civil chaos and the terrifying implications of the universe’s disorder.
-At any moment the bombs could fall, the sun implode, the asteroids shred us, the abyss devour us. Our existence is a pale flower perched above the churning flame of the gods’ maniacal designs. Let us pray each day that we waste no time praying.
Keep listening, eat some good pasta and please, please leave the Chinese alone, it’s just the Olympics.
4/4/2008
A quote from Rumi came to me in an SMS just now:
He was asked once what to do about a young man doing some indecent act:
Rumi told them not to worry about it. “It just means he’s growing feathers. The dangerous case is a child who doesn’t engage in indecent acts, who then leaves the nest without feathers. One flap and the act has him.
I chuckled as I read it, and felt a blessing descend on my evening, and evening in which I go to see the mysterious Charlie Smyles play at the Bender Bar. I have met Charlie a few times previously, and I find him an intriguing character. I imagine him a man of moods, flights of strange mania and dark rifts of melancholy. But these are only inferences from a few short, drugged encounters in which I have discussed with him Nick Cave, Tom Waits, and the excellence of his dress sense.
The Bender Bar was quiet when I arrived, just a handful of patrons murmuring quietly around an empty bar. I took a few photos while I waited for the barman to finish his smoke – the Bender is a dimly lit, cosy bar, illuminated entirely by soft pink and yellow lamps at odd angles. At the rear, one of the walls features a massive, almost frightening, wall-hanging showing a grotty Asian boy (Tibetan, maybe) in festive, traditional garb – blowing a pink bubble of gum from his dirt-stained lips. Quite intriguing.
It turned out that this was not a simple gig. Instead it involved poetry readings, Djs, several solo artists and a cheesy-as-fuck Jim Morrison based poster, which informed us that this was Feast of Friends featuring Scarlett Cooke, Mild Sparrow, Queeny Cups, Charlie Smyles, spoken word by Kris Allison and DJ Zaziz. I had been tricked, hoodwinked, and I was in no mood for such a variegated and potentially tedious assembly, thank sweet Zombie Jesus Charlie was up first.
Smyles was accompanied by some every fine saxophone, I will get that out of the way now by saying that it perfectly complemented the songs with smooth and tasteful blues lines – a great combination. On to the songs. The first was a standout, with lyrics about gypsies, women and heartache, sung in a voice and style reminiscent of early Tom Waits records. The tortured refrain – “some things should be left unsaid” – held beautifully aloft by a simple chord progression, splashes with flurries of blues licks. The fourth and last songs were also particularly good, being a strange, slow, dreamy, haunting version of Summertime melting out of a Fur Elise introduction and the infectiously singable and distinctly Melbournian Last Tram Home, respectively.
The entire set was of a high calibre: Smyles is an honest performer who seems genuinely committed to his art, both lyrically and musically, which lends his better songs a moving and, at times, spine tingling quality. In some songs the vocal line became overshadowed by the piano and sax (but this may have had something to do with the bad sound system obscuring many of the lyrics) and the connecting dialogue between songs was often mumbled to the point of obscurity (a notable exception being Smyles’ desperate plea, “Please buy my CD, I need sales. I wouldn’t say this if I wasn’t broke” – that was crystal clear). But these are minor criticisms, having as much to do with the speakers and the mix as with Smyles’ occasionally stock melodies and nonchalant stage presence.
If I permit myself one criticism of Smyles that is more fundamental, and I do, it is that he wears his influences a little too much on his sleeve for my taste. Smyles has grown many feathers but, perhaps, not yet left the nest. That is: the songs are good, the chops are solid, he sings well, he writes well – it’s all there and yet, for me, his music lacks a certain completeness. As if Smyles’ influences - of which I’ll hazard a guess Tom Waits is the biggest - have not been fully absorbed and worked into a unique style but, instead, hover above the style and the songwriting as unattainable spectres of perfection.
Then again, maybe that’s just the beer and stimulants talking. Smyles is undoubtedly an artist to watch – he has talent as a performer and a composer, he has soul, a great voice and an impeccable dress sense. Check him out, and for God’s sake buy his CD – the man’s broke!
…
When the set ends I move outside and start writing in the present tense. Queeny Cups is up next and I observe her discreetly as I talk with Charlie, drink my Agwa, and smoke other people’s tobacco. Queeny Cups reminds me of Joni Mitchell, but without the great woman’s grace or genius. Queeny’s songs have a jagged beauty about them – schizoid chord progressions, powerful voice, interesting lyrics – but let’s face it: they’re far too strange for a teeny-bopper like me. And, anyway, at this point my mind is drifting from music to civil chaos and the terrifying implications of the universe’s disorder.
-At any moment the bombs could fall, the sun implode, the asteroids shred us, the abyss devour us. Our existence is a pale flower perched above the churning flame of the gods’ maniacal designs. Let us pray each day that we waste no time praying.
Keep listening, eat some good pasta and please, please leave the Chinese alone, it’s just the Olympics.
