Weariness
Commuter Music

Into light, into darkness

There are glimpses of light in this absorbing new record, infectious melodies, poignant observations and the type of dense, impressionistic aural landscapes that C. Excuse, in his latest incarnation as Commuter Music, has made his trademark style over a prolific, independent musical career spanning three decades.
In ‘Weariness’ he has shown us a more accessible side of his creative persona, an incursion into welcome territory evoking the great guitar bands of the post-punk era, memorable and exciting moments reminiscent of The Smiths and Psychedelic Furs. The title may summarise the record’s lyrical content in terms of existential fatigue but there is no creative weariness in an artistic fuel tank that seems inexhaustible.
It is refreshing to see a versatile, unclassifiable musician with a vast armoury of registers and qualities, veering toward peaks of pop noteworthiness, for instance in the outstanding ‘Halfway There,’ with the suggestive line “I built the highest building in this town so you could throw yourself from the top in the presence of them all”, evocative of the Mancunian legends and of Morrissey’s own tongue in cheek irony. It is clearly a debt of gratitude to so many unforgettable Manchester bands of the 80s that made our lives worthwhile. This ranks as a partial detour from a body of work characterised by a permanent search for an enduring musical aesthetic however elusive.
The elegiac ‘One Way Street’ whose sombre, velvety tones underpin yet more stories of inevitable emotional chaos and conflict, exults in its slow gestation, an elaborate lament with female backing vocals that are haunting and sweet in equal measure. The mood is sustained in the hypnotic mid tempo piano slumber of the title track (aka “invertebrate), which seems an apposite reprobation not so much of herd immunity as of herd mentality. Connoisseurs will no doubt spot the nod to Acton’s finest -- The Who -- and the organ introduction to the classic ‘Won’t Get Fooled Again’.
My favourite track has to be the intriguingly titled ‘Fratricide’ whose thunderous opening salvo is not for the faint hearted, and sets the scene for what is to come. A statement of intent as crystal clear guitar swirls over a hip hop drum loop, and gives way to the dramatic plea that grabs the listener by the scruff of the neck: “Forgive me father but I don’t give a damn, won’t fight for reasons that I can’t understand.” A powerful single that will continue to resonate inside your head long after the music has faded into silence.

As the album progresses so too does the sound thicken, transcending the rock format for more original compositions that eschew bland conventions and puerile commercial stereotypes that explore far more demanding sonic spaces.
Perhaps it is in ‘Renegade’ where the juxtaposition of opposite musical textures in the record is most discernible. From its opening monolithic strains which revel in self-consciousness and sense of claustrophobia, the song mutates into a melodic interlude of instrumental whispers, a redeeming transition from darkness to light.
But there is no light at the end of the tunnel and the undercurrent of darker musical impulses charts a path to more moody and reflective sounds, a swamp of crafted musical elements that celebrate mournfulness, that resurface in style from the muddy banks, from the murky and fertile depths of introspection.
In the deceptively titled ‘Safety Net’ C. Excuse in his latest guise as minstrel of melancholy, returns to his signature dreamy soundscapes, a suppressed, linear musical hymn for the initiated, which ensnares the listener into a nightmare, that drifts ambiguously in and out of reality. The oneiric atmosphere is reprised in ‘Breather’ where a dampened piano is finally overcome in washes of synth as much as by the lyrical bleakness in the line “For the needles and the broken plates, the piercing words and the rotten flesh.”
‘Vulture Culture’ is a more straightforward, well-structured composition where the Captain croons his way gently through a seemingly idyllic plateau of lush melodies. The song fades out but never quite ends, slipping instead into infinite stasis, six minutes of life support, Major Tom’s last signal from Ground Control. Music as the palliative, painless passage to the final destination.
The closing track ‘If I’ starts with a crashing snare drum and tambourine beat interspersed with rhythmic bursts of distorted guitar, introducing a mono-chordal post-modern plainsong. At nine minutes it transmits an irresistible hypnotic quality that spreads like an air borne virus impregnating listeners, inducing them into a trance like state. It all sounds as a Jesus and Mary Chain song produced by Alan Parsons in an imaginary vault.
Weariness is a must for those who flee from the comfort zone of disposable pop as much as from the plague. Manchester de la Concepcion so much to answer for....

Francisco Oliva