Just exactly how long does an artist have to be considered a ‘newcomer’ before we are forced to accept defeat and acquiesce to the broader public consensus that they’re simply not that popular? Nick Drake was never popular. Ian Curtis was never popular; even Elliot Smith could have passed enough folks in the street to fill a liner without ever once courting recognition. The truth is, as intriguing, mysterious and downright obtuse an artist can be, it does not naturally follow that they’ll be recognised as a genius. Morrissey was an exception, of course; a canny command of the press and a carefully located daffodil ensured that. But this is no arbitrary trinity I bring together as there’s something in the way that McCombs effortlessly bonds the lo-brow wit of a drunkard with the lofty mechanics of an incurable romantic that reminds me of each of these taproom troubadours. Take the jangling kissarama that is ‘Sacred Heart’ – weighted in quasi-religious and scholastic imagery, perilously amoral yet drilled into the heart with the prettiest of melodies and the most ticklish of guitar licks. ‘She’s Still Suffering’ is another one – only this time the screwball profundity of it all is buoyed up even more by the swelling wall of sound provided by Coombs’s drum and orchestra mayhem; at once provocative, at once vile , at once tender. Try to imagine Wayne Coyne of the Flaming Lip’s producing a young Pete Wylie fresh from a mushroom trip with Mark E. Smith.
Cass McCombs may have had a bit of a nerve to request a self-addressed, stamped envelope from anyone who wished to read the lyrics to his debut album, A but on second album ‘Prefection’ he more than ably justifies it; intense, awkward and challenging as it is. And whilst it may be too early to bestow on the fellow accolades of near James Joyce proportions or to accredit him with crafting somekind of musical ‘Ulysses’ the album does yield a staggering range of characters and passions and makes for a hugely satisfying slice of human theatre all the same.
Glittering slivers of Manchester might prevail: the Smiths, The Fall, James (‘Equinox’, ‘Subtraction’) but it’s so uniquely and peculiarly illustrated that you can just about forgive his thrift store rummage through the archives, observing that somewhere beyond his deliberate obtuseness and his childish, wilful havoc, there’s a rare and precious talent taking shape. In short, an excellent album all round with too many good tracks to mention.