What Goes Unsaid - Or 'why Field Music are geniuses'

There's a great passage cosseted in the middle of 'Death in the Afternoon' where Ernest Hemingway brings to task Aldous Huxley's criticism of the simplicity of Hemingway's language, that he aspires downwards and condescends. Hemingway retorts that 'When writing a novel a writer should create living people; people not characters. Characters are caricatures... No matter how good a phrase or simile he has if he puts it where it is not absolutely necessary he spoils his work for his egotism. Prose is architecture, not interior decoration.'

And what does this have to do with Field Music? I've always felt them the masters of the unsaid. Their close vignettes just state an idea, they don't embellish it, burn it too far or overplay it. Take 'She Can Do What She Wants' as a prime example. Its opening line states a fact, and a notion 'She's not home, somehow I knew she'd have gone have gone.' Its followed by a recollection 'she said - now leave me, it's easy'. We don't know why she said this, its our place to guess, but we can tell she's in charge, he did it and he came back later. These are real people, real experiences, our views of what's playing out aren't drawn one way or another by the words being said.

The closing line of the song asks 'how come I feel wrong, cos she can do what she wants?'. It's the first time either character admits to the woman's ascendancy, an ending. The music is incessant throughout, a chugging guitar riff accompanies the tale, suggestive of a repetitious experience. The harmonious crescendo to the song seems to note an element of relief but this is only ever implied.

Like Hemingway Field Music trade only in the matter of fact, their music is what allows the interpretation and it's this interplay between elements, this balance that gives their sound its immediacy, its gravitas - much as Hemingway's settings did the same - the Sea, wartime, the bullfight - the drama is borne from the clash of the extraordinary and the mundane.

Just as great prose need never be aspirational (though in this writer's opinion it often is) nor should great pop music have the same endeavour. If Hemingway were alive, I think he'd take to Field Music.

Just Great Pop - Born Ruffians, Hummingbird

I've spent a long time, too much time, deciding what to write on first. A eulogy on the intracacies of the basslines in 'Storm' by Godspeed You! Black Emperor? I've spared you. A lne by line dissection of the lyrics to James Yorkston's 'Woozy with Cider', in my view the most profound an beautiful monologue committed to celluloid this century? Another time perhaps.

So what then?

A post about a band who had marginal success on the back of an appearance in teen lifestyle doucumentary 'Skins' and whose lending of this particular track to flog animal balloons and subsequent humming be suited buffoons almost led me to string myself up? Yep. And why?

Its now six months since Born Ruffians first encountered TV fame by pledging their lot to Orange, almost twelve since I received a tip off of their brilliance by an 'in the know' padre and around nine since I fell out of the Amersham Arms in New Cross, held up by said friend, babbling that 'Hummingbird' was the song of the year. And I am still absolutely addicted. It is a quite wonderful piece of pop music. I say that not in some high minded gesture of patronisation as the indie cognoscenti seem to claim any such is declamation is of late - but rather because it is. In the same way that 'Time to Pretend' by MGMT is, 'With Every Heartbeat' by Robyn is and 'Last Nite' by The Strokes is.

I.e. it is to all intents and purposes a perfectly hummable piece of FM friendly guitar fodder. On the other hand its an intensely complicated piece of music seating itself magically round a quite hypnotic central bass riff, it has a refrain so brilliantly inane that one can't help finding oneself singing it in the face of non-plussed takeaway staff for approximately 12 days after first listen and, for about 20 seconds towards the end of the song it just goes absolutely nowhere, you just about switch off. But then, high octane as before, bam, 'fly away little hummingbird!!!!!' I sang it the first time I heard it. I sensed it coming. But this just hides the fact that the first minute and a half is a trade of scatalogical riffs and gibberish lyrics, each as likely as the next to provide a hit record. Its real beauty is in its complexity which one only notices through ridiculous over analysis. In truth, none of these riffs fit together but they all fall into place.

Its this accidental brilliance that is the alchemy of all fabulous pop music, from Kylie to The Animals. It even, through its refrain, gives one a premonition of the horrors to come: I just can't get you out of my head: 'Oh, oh, ohoh, oh, oh, ohoooooh...' Oh shit. Another 12 days worth.