Have you invented a genre lately? It's probably safe to bet that you haven't, and there's really no shame in that-- not many people ever do. In fact, these days it may be impossible to even do it at all, given how much ground has been covered and how much exposure we all have to so many different forms of media every day-- chances are it would just turn out to be a subgenre of something else. Still, I'd like to posit that Barry Adamson has come pretty damn close to pulling it off.
Most of you probably know Adamson from somewhere-- he first came to fame laying down the basslines for Howard Devoto's Magazine, later backing Nick Cave as a member of both the Birthday Party and the Bad Seeds. Then, after departing from the Bad Seeds in 1987, he set forth on an interesting solo career that found him diving full-force into dark, cinematic music that seemed an entirely natural outgrowth of his past work. When we last left him in 1998, he hit us with As Above, So Below, a superlative offering that found him wandering down jazz noir alleys and finding that there was actually quite a bit of room to rock down there.
Four years later, he's back with King of Nothing Hill, and it's clear that all that time spent touring popular music's darkest recesses has left an indelible mark on him. The man can't even get funky without first setting an ominous tone. In short, this is what it may have sounded like had George Clinton commissioned Angelo Badalamenti and Peter Christopherson to write music for Hey, Man, Smell My Finger-- it's music that begs you to simultaneously cast a paranoid eye over your shoulder and get on the good foot.
It's hard to lay your finger on it, but Adamson himself may have hit on a name for his own little subgenre in the title of opening song: "Cinematic Soul". The song itself is such a ridiculous combination of old-school funk's party atmosphere and creeping, electronically skewered art-rock that it almost has to work, solely on the strength of sheer inventiveness. Granted, it's awkwardly funky, and there's one moment where Adamson just loses it. (Memo to musicians everywhere: don't bring your grade-school aged kid in to sing along on any song, even for a brief moment. It didn't work for Art Garfunkel; it didn't work for Eminem; it doesn't work for Barry Adamson.)
This vomit-coaxing misstep is hardly enough derail Adamson's soul train, though, as he rapidly branches out, aggressively covering all kinds of ground, from surf electronica ("The Crime Scene") to vamping jazz noir with an insistent swing to it ("Les Matin de Noire"). He tries his hand at some genuinely soulful singer/songwriter type stuff on "That Fool Was Me" with great success, though he cleverly subverts it with a bizarre, inventive horn arrangement that owes a huge debt to Charles Mingus.
Lyrically, Adamson sticks primarily to topics you might expect to ooze from music like this, from his first-person hitman narrative on the relentlessly upbeat "Whispering Streets" to the comical Barry White-throated "Satisfaction Jackson" persona he adopts on "Black Amour". Perhaps the most impressive element of the album, though, is just the sound of it-- constantly swirling and shifting textures, cut through with sweeping strings, slicing electronics and startlingly atonal bursts of piano and violin. Adamson produced it himself, and his skill at the board is remarkable; every sound fits exactly where it should and even the most bombastic moments don't feel overbearing.
Adamson has managed yet another fine addition to his long career with King of Nothing Hill, a unique, gripping listen that's certainly not for everyone, but manages to carve out an appealing niche for itself. There are times when it doesn't work especially well, but these are more than made up for by the instances where it hits and Adamson truly seems to be forging something of his own. Anyone looking to fill that spot in their collection where icy noir and funk meet should be nicely appeased by this one.
