Best known for scoring film soundtracks, Craig Armstrong has provided a-list pop acts (U2, Massive Attack, and Spice Girls) with cloying string arrangements. But his stock-in-trade is moody, gargatuanly stringed incidental music for hysterically overblown movies like Moulin Rouge and Plunkett and MacLean. The appropriately titled As If to Nothing follows on from his 101-Strings-for-Jaded-Dullards debut, The Space Between Us, and repeats the same formula throughout its sixty-nine minutes, just as its predecessor did. Though some might say that Armstrong's music is powerfully evocative and serene, such people hate music and all its subtle possibilities and intricacies. Plus, if Armstrong perceives that music can be subtle, intricate and meaningful, this album goes strenuously out of its way to demonstrate the opposite.
An Armstrong piece is short and unobtrusive, which, for movie producers, means Armstrong's an affordable alternative to James Horner or John Williams. While no director really wants an audience distracted by a heavenly orchestral piece from his or her images, I expect something more eventful for home listening than billows of strings interrupted in the politest way by French horns or a soaring oboe.
Perhaps aware of the limitations of his instrumentals, Armstrong enlisted help: drum-n-bass master Photek, soul crooner David McAlmont, Alpha vocalist Wendy Stubbs, Antye Greie-Fuchs from German glitchers Laub, Bono, Mogwai and even Lemonheaded lost boy Evan Dando took time out from their otherwise productive lives to take part in this effete twaddle. Rumor has it that a small town was built to house and support all the musicians involved in realizing Armstrong's bland vision. Divided into two camps: hundreds of Musicians' Union schlubs, and those star performers the liners classify as "featured artist." But anyone wandering into Armstrong's shanty town could distinguish the two classes by whether they had a limo pick them up from their temporary accommodation or whether they had to ride Shank's pony to the studio.
Once seated in front of the music stands, the majority of the performers probably chuckled at how childishly simple Armstrong's score is, and how repetitious. All string players are asked to play languidly and high, piling on mock emotion by the shovelful. Horn players are similarly asked to underpin the insipidly swollen string gestures with mannered blasts. Percussion is left to programmers, who borrow heavily from Massive Attack's Mezzanine loops.
Any discerning listener must hope that the "featured artists" will crack through the sickly sweet monotony. The juxtaposition of sweeping strings and Mogwai could have been fascinating, had Mogwai's contribution not been erased in post-production. I can detect no trace of them during "Miracle," the piece on which they're credited. Photek suffers identically. I'm at a loss to find Photek amid the generic trip-hop beats of "Hymn 2," and the addition of soprano soloist Catherine Bott to the track makes it seem as though Armstrong constructed this song solely for those wishing to augment their Enya and Enigma collections. Despite Armstrong declaring in a Guardian newspaper interview that Antye Greie-Fuchs' band Laub are reminiscent of Stockhausen, he (maliciously?) reduces her vocals to exotic curiosity during "Waltz." Fuchs babbles away in German and occasionally English making no sense and leaving the majority of listeners with a very dim view of her mental health.
Bono gets to redo his vocals for U2's chestnut, "Stay (Faraway, So Close)," and reveals that despite his striving for Scott Walker's baritone, the best he'll ever achieve is Michael Bolton's. David McAlmont, former Thieves vocalist and collaborator with ex-London Suede guitarist Bernard Butler, fairs far better, which really is damning him with faint praise. During "Snow," McAlmont taps into the powerful soulful pathos that made songs like "Yes" (from The Sound of McAlmont and Butler) such stunners. But again, Armstrong bludgeons McAlmont with the orchestra, perhaps out of jealousy. McAlmont is capable of real emotion, not Armstrong's ersatz approximation of feeling.
I find Armstrong's successful career bewildering, given the extremely narrow musical ability he displays throughout this album. A case in point is "Starless II," a piece that incorporates a chunk of Robert Fripp's guitar solo from King Crimson's "Starless." The extent of Armstrong's ability is to mimic exactly the notes Fripp plays in the string section, which is a stultifying waste of everyone's time. The strings attach themselves like barnacles to Fripp's guitar and refuse to be shaken loose. Another instrumental, "Ruthless Gravity," demonstrates just how conservative an electronic label Astralwerks can be. Token blips begin the song before a deluge of syrupy unison strings shove the sound of the new out of the way. For me, "Ruthless Gravity" typifies Astralwerks' partially concealed loathing of innovation. Just one look at their roster and you'll see example after example of shoddy talent and crummy back-in-the-day-ism.
Despite the prevalence of vapid schlock, As If to Nothing displays one genuine surprise in Evan Dando. Dando brings a maturity and sensitivity that I had hitherto not suspected he was capable of. Though the song, "Wake Up in New York," lifts sections from Kate Bush's "Moments of Pleasure," Dando's reserved solemnity gives As If to Nothing a grace it doesn't deserve. Armstrong does superbly to restrain himself from augmenting Dando with anything but an acoustic guitar for the first fifty seconds. But inevitably, Armstrong wants the spotlight trained back on him and lobs string salvoes to crush Dando's affecting delivery.
The title As If to Nothing fits this execrable CD perfectly. Putting aside for a moment Armstrong's neutering of his "featured artists," what galls me is his rootlessness. I can detect no affiliation with or reference to any classical tradition. I'm not asking him to wave the Darmstadt or Vienna gang sign, but at least show an awareness of the intricacies of composition other than those mandated by the Muzak Corporation. Though this record courts an audience who despises creativity and innovation, it will disappoint even them by not giving them a single decent melody to hum along to. At least Moby gave his audience "South Side" and "Porcelain."
The dominant force of any Armstrong piece, the strings, are a unified mass, undifferentiated and relentless in their turgid banality. They move like a column of artillery, crushing any small beauty beneath their lumbering feet. Such tactics work splendidly for tender moments in a Michael Bay picture (surely Armstrong's next outing), but they have no place in any music collection.
