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Arab Strap
Echo & The Bunnymen
The Jesus And Mary Chain
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Television Personalities

Mark

Arab Strap



PRE-ORDER
Arab Strap “Philophobia”



Philophobia, Arab Strap’s sophomore slam dunk released in the spring of 1998, begins with one of the most memorable opening lines in all of indie rock:

“It was the biggest cock you'd ever seen
But you've no idea where that cock has been”


So starts an album that, while picking up thematically where the duo’s debut album The Week Never Starts Round Here left off, promises from its very first seconds a renewed sense of purpose: the narratives are more streamlined, the music more confident and mature. Gone are the sketches and doodles that unquestionably distinguished 1996’s The Week Never Starts Round Hereas the work of first timers, replaced with a consistent, almost conceptual, musical framework. On Philophobia, singer and lyricist Aidan Moffat’s realism is more profane, gritty and poignant, while multi-instrumentalist Malcolm Middleton’s honeyed orchestrations increasingly provide clinics in subtlety and restraint.

In the world of Arab Strap, the good years are either long gone or are rapidly speeding by in a feverish montage of big weekends, scandalous secrets, discarded clothes, and bogs full of bile. Tempting as it may be to dismiss Moffat as another lonesome lothario in the tradition of Greg Dulli or Jarvis Cocker, the singer’s oversharing unerringly carries with it an unmistakable aura of longing and loss; he’s not bragging, he’s confessing. Over Middleton’s variety of elegant tones and textures, Moffat’s mordant confessions become unlikely anthems. The result is music that is bleak but beautiful, full of dread and toxic nostalgia, and dotted with repentance, impotence, and wounded male ego.

As on the band’s previous album, Philophobia’s greatest asset is located in the sum of its parts, namely Moffat and Middleton’s shared vision (and aided by a myriad of musical guests). The group’s expanded sonic palette on Philophobia encompasses everything from electric piano, cello, trumpet, synthesizers, and drum machines, all in perfect harmony with Middleton’s spindly and idiosyncratic guitar figures. The strength is in the fragile subtlety of the arrangements: note how, on album highlight “New Birds,” the song’s cathartic breakdown is followed up by a crescendo of near-violence.

Part of the appeal of Arab Strap’s post-everything music is the way the group’s songs make every listener feel like either a voyeur or a trusted confidante. The ever-present humanity in future sex advice columnist Moffat’s first person tales of debauchery and regret are a through-line running between each of these frank and vivid songs: the same narrator who confesses to sniffing his fingers after a sexual encounter and boasts about the size of his penis also yearns to “hug” a lover to death, finds himself crying on the bus, and wonders idly—but hopefully—whether or not he’s truly in love with the woman he’s just slept with. It is this duality, complemented by Middleton’s imaginative and deeply sensitive accompaniment, that makes Philophobiaone of the most original and enduring front-to-back albums in the canon of modern indie rock; over two decades later, it still sounds warm to the touch. .



PURCHASE
Arab Strap “The Week Never Starts Round Here”



1996 saw the release of Arab Strap’s first single, “The First Big Weekend,” and debut album The Week Never Starts Round Here. Into an underground rock milieu preoccupied at the time with slo-core, math rock, and all things Pet Sounds, the duo of Malcolm Middleton and Aidan Moffat couldn’t have sounded more alien.

In many ways, The Week Never Starts Round Here bears all the marks of a debut: it’s raw, unguarded, and crammed with ideas. It also firmly establishes the particular set-up that would define Arab Strap’s sound over the course of eleven years, with Middleton handling the music while Moffat provides the vocals and lyrics. Even this division of labor—more common to rap music than to the shoegazers and increasingly ubiquitous “collectives” of indie rock—seemed to defy expectations.

The sound of Arab Strap is a distinct brand of existential miserablism. Middleton’s cleverly arranged foundation of nocturnal guitars and rudimentary drum machines provides a canvas for Moffat to relay, in a thick Scottish dialect, his many sloshed, candid confessions. Long before artists like Mike Skinner chronicled the picaresque days of lads getting pissed and getting laid, Arab Strap’s vivid tales of lovers, lager and shame were being broadcast on college stations everywhere.

Hedonism, however, comes at a price. At the heart of The Week Never Starts Round Here is a kind of wounded vulnerability; there is something uniquely pitiable about the lecherous sot Moffat embodies in these songs. “I can't make boasts about my body,” Moffat confesses on “General Plea To A Girlfriend”; “the workmanship is somewhat shoddy.” This is the same band, of course, that would name its next album after the clinical term for “fear of falling in love.”

The album also introduces another of Arab Strap’s particular quirks: civic pride. For a man who likes a drink, Moffat is a surprisingly reliable narrator: his lyrics often reference actual places, people and events, lending to his narratives a kind of Joycean realism. At two different points on The Week Never Starts Round Here Moffat makes explicit references to his foil, Middleton. The particular football match between England and Ireland referenced in “The First Big Weekend” verifiably occurred; The Canteen was in fact a real bar in Falkirk; the Arches was a working nightclub in Glasgow. If so inclined, one could even make a pilgrimage to Scotland and map their own guided tour of Arab Strap locations.

Middleton may be Arab Strap’s secret weapon and ultimate visionary. Though the whistling solo on “General Plea to a Girlfriend” may be about as over-produced as the album gets, Middleton’s musical accompaniment is always deftly congruent, whether Moffat’s lyrics call for melancholy, brittle, or throbbing like a wicked hangover.

The Week Never Starts Round Here is an album full of drugged-up kisses and dried up egos; it chronicles the conquests and knockbacks of weekends that last forever, and it does so unapologetically, poetically, and profanely. Indie rock would never be the same.





Mark