Welcome all to ๐๐ผ๐ป๐ป๐ผ๐น๐น๐โ๐ ๐๐ผ๐ฟ๐ป๐ฒ๐ฟ, a series of weekly reviews by Charles Connolly – an artist in his own right. Here, Charles delves into the greatest brand new singles brought to you by the best unsigned artists on our electrifying and eclectic set of ๐๐๐ฌ ๐ผ๐ง๐ฉ๐๐จ๐ฉ ๐๐ฅ๐ค๐ฉ๐ก๐๐๐๐ฉ playlists.
๐๐ข๐ฅ๐ฉ๐ฎ ๐ฝ๐ค๐ฉ๐ฉ๐ก๐๐จ – ๐๐ช๐ญ ๐ฟ๐ช๐๐ค๐ช๐ง
Charles remembers it wellโฆ
Memories. We all have them. Well, except for those with Alzheimerโs. But even then, some memories will remain. Usually earlier ones, as they tend to be cast in stone. And itโs those earlier memories on which I would like to dwell. Not the memories of a few months or years ago, but the memories of another era. An era when those who have now passed were still among us. An era when things were done differently. An altogether simpler time, when all generations were – to an extent – in sync with one another. When older people taught the young, as opposed to the other way around. A time when experience actually meant something. When one could spend decades building upon oneโs skill without fear of said skill being surplus to requirements. When the word โentertainmentโ meant a board game at home with the family, or a few bottles of ale with the lads in the smoky local, as old Joanna played the old Joanna in the corner. Not THIS Corner; another corner. A time when going to work meant physically going to work, and when work was not optional. A tie was not only for job interviews and weddings. Footwear was either leather or a gym shoe. Smoking was seen simply as an alternative form of air, and buildings looked like buildings. They also smoked.
Iโm sure many of you older folk will have strong, vivid memories not too dissimilar. Some of you may have had video cameras in order to capture some of these treasured memories. Some of you may not. Some of you will have memories that long pre-date the advent of such a magical machine. But whichever way it was for you, do you find that you โseeโ the past through the eye of a lens? Do your memories seem somewhat filmic to you? They do to me. And I never had a video camera back then. They are like indelible dreams to me. And not ones that I wish to erase. These are not nightmares. These are calming times that make me feel lucky to have experienced them firsthand. For those days are gone, but they are far from having left us.
On Sunday I did not work; work being something I usually do on Sundays because I cannot work on Mondays. Instead, my girlfriend and I sauntered off to visit my parents for lunch. Their company is something I cannot get anywhere else. It is unique. You see, they dance around in strange yellow outfits, squawking like lunatics. I gather they are pretending to be spring chickens. No one else would do that. Itโs quite hilarious, if a little bewildering. But you get used to it. Well, okay. That was all a lie. They donโt pretend to be spring chickens. They act their age – whatever age that might be. The thing is, the four of us so naturally sway into the past. ALL chat is confined to the past. The current past, or so it feels. Well, even thatโs not quite true. We talk about the present just long enough to depress us all, so we neatly slip back into the past again. The heavenly perfect past. Thatโs how we remember it, isnโt itโฆ Speaking of the past is usually warm. Theyโre the fondest of memories. It can of course trigger some strong emotions, but what is life for if it is not for emotion. People often speak these days of โliving in the nowโ. But the now is grey. I am looking at a grey sky. Yesterday, however, was a blue sky. And other than the occasional memory of a dreadful flood, most of our other memories tend have a blue sky. So why dwell on the grey sky of the now, when you can look back on the blue sky of the then? A lot of people seem allergic to the past these days. Give me a decent present and Iโll happily shelve the past for the time being. But until then, my present memory is frankly a nicer now than now. And so, I will close my eyes, remember, and drink that bottle dry.
My mother is a fabulous cook. My father is a fabulous, er, server of wine. So alongside the delicious grub, we had several bottles of fine grog. Thus leaving little behind but a stack of used plates and a few empty bottles. THEN came the chicken outfits! No, no. No chicken outfits. But I did wander back into the dining room an hour later (who has a dining room these daysโฆ?). I saw the depleted bottles as I gazed around the room – it is not like any room you have ever encountered (and neither shall you ever know of its appearance). I remember that room from when I was a little blob. Having not grown a great deal since then, the room is not much smaller than I remember. But those memories. How special they are. And how they were triggered by something so simple as a stack of used plates and a few empty bottles. Kindly retract your quiet notion of thinking that my mother is a bad housewife for not having cleared the plates, and that my father is an alcoholic having guzzled such copious amounts of booze. She is not, and he is not. They are, in fact, perfect parents. And one day I hope to be even half as perfect as they. Thank you for the memories, dear sweet two. May they live long.
But we have yet more bottles to get through! Ah. I see you have already got through them, for they are also empty. Please welcome Lux Dujour with their brand new single, Empty Bottles. Itโs a bit grand, I warn you now. Although having never reviewed Lux Dujour in my Corner, they have appeared in my writing. Mainly when I was reviewing one half of the duo. Christian Licursi appeared as Lekursi for his debut single, Wildfire. But I just KNEW I would be seeing the full duo here soon enough, yet that I had to be patient. You see, their last release was in 2023. Thatโs a while agoโฆ I actually missed Lux Dujour! The good news is, you must wait no longer. The Blackpudlians, Christian Licursi and John McAlpine are BACK and on top form! They both write the music, but predominantly John is the music man, and Christian is the singer. They also have โa blokeโ who produces with John. No, itโs not me. Although itโs very me. Anyone who knows me, knows that this song is VERY me. Itโs just obvious. Yes, yes, Iโm a walking clichรฉ. Even โclichรฉโ contains both a C and a C. It will not surprise many that I picked this song.
The song is mainly about memories and times past, and it CERTAINLY evokes that feeling. Not just in words, but in its sound. This is pure, classic beauty in its finest finery. I mentioned it was grand. Think film. Think symphony orchestra. Think modest extravagance (if you can), in the way of a beautiful Savile Row suit. Maybe with a touch of Liberace. So, okay, not so modest. But come back to that film element. It seduces like the credits of an expensive production. It secures your place in this theatre. Donโt let that first piano chord fool you into thinking this is part two of last weekโs CC pick. This is bigger, grander, and altogether something more Hollywood. And yet, just as you thought you might be following this red carpet of piano, low strings and soft horns, that very carpet is whipped from under you. All is personal again. Early Spain has dawned with nylon pluck. Johnโs exquisite classical guitar steals it all, paving the way for the much anticipated vocals from Christian. And there he is. All honest, all naked – save the guitar and piano. That is, until 1:02, when the double bass strikes at the root as the strings flatten the fifth, only to resolve with the following minor chord. The piece begins to open up. It is like watching the break of dawn. But also as if this dawn is to signify day one of war. I somehow hear brave soldiers, marching slowly to the place of their final memory. But there is a strong sense of duty. A duty that propels them into doing their very best. Their heads full of only the finest memories.
Empty Bottles may not be completely empty. I get the impression they are full of something: hope. And this hope is heavily emphasised by this absolutely gorgeous production. The soaring yet modest strings, the ominous yet thrilling timpani, the sumptuous yet understated horns. The harmony is complex as only experience knows how. One cannot stumble upon such notes by chance. And yet, we end up with something extremely easy on the ear. It is complex, not complicated. It is impressive, but not showy. This is far from โlook what I can doโ, because Lux Dujour are simply above that. They are not interested in impressing, but in making a great piece of art. This, of course, is impressive in itself, but the goal Iโm sure was never to make you go โI wish I could do thatโ. The impression left should simply be one of emotion, which they have truly achieved. I have sat here, listening on repeat. I even had an early copy of this one, so I have listened to it hundreds of times. And every time, I am hit by its emotional impact. Itโs maybe not good for me to listen this many times actually – feeling rather withered. But in a satisfied way. Like when you cry. Youโre usually not happy when you cry. But that feeling of relief and release afterwards is really the very reason we cry. We have to. But these days we perhaps stop ourselves from doing so. One should never consciously halt oneโs emotion, unless it might hurt or harm someone else. In this case, I let it flow, and no one was hurt. I enjoy being moved by music. In fact, for me there is little better than this. Love, perhaps, being the exception.
As to Empty Bottles, I have already heard quiet words of praise from several music chums. Some have mentioned Hotel California. Others have mentioned Pink Floyd. While I do see and acknowledge these potential homophones, I personally hear the orchestral beauty of Lux Dujour. That is all. I guarantee this will be your luxury of the day.
In America, the clocks have just changed. Soon we will all officially be spring chickens. p-KARK!! (it apparently runs in the family)
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