The old trope, usually applied to jazz but which can seem to work for any genre you don’t particularly have much time for, goes that an artist should never be enjoying themselves up on stage any more than the audience are watching on.
For black midi, the joke was that this would never be their problem, a stone-faced commitment to free-form and improvisation always looking like it needed far too much effort and concentration to find time for anything as trite as ‘fun’.
Like making a Formula 1 car behave, or scaling an imposing mountain, satisfaction can only come with the completion of that final lap, the taking of that final step, the playing of that final note.
Any sniggering stopped though with news of the indefinite hiatus from the band of guitarist Matt Kwasniewski-Kelvin to concentrate on his mental health. As worked progressed on Cavalcade in his absence, it was seized upon by those left behind as an opportunity to further expand their sound.
The addition of brass and keys was just one of the stages of a new approach to writing and recording which effectively forced them to live more in the moment, working (albeit not exclusively) on much fresher material started at home, individually, before being knocked around to completion in the studio.
It removed what frontman Geordie Greep had come to view as ‘the dangerous myth’ of improvisation eventually bringing divine intervention, the logical conclusion of this being that a song might never be finished, might always have something missing, that final note never played.
Sniggering might have restarted then when the first example of this was offered on the almost impenetrable math of opener John L, complete with an even more bewildering video satirising the sandy foundations of cult followings, its final act a toddler elevated to the role of Last Emperor.
The first run through of Cavalcade doesn’t particularly bring further clarity, more a walk down a soupy street illuminated only by a far off gas lamp, accompanied by the occasional stone being thrown by a young reprobate following close behind…’How’s that for another time signature guv’nor?’.
Barbs come from Chondromalacia Patella, pranking as it indicates left but turns right each time the route seems to have been worked out. From Hogwash And Balderdash, which sounds like the song Robert Fripp would rather be covering with Toyah Willcox on his Sunday afternoons. From a damn wok of all things on Diamond Stuff.
But with time, eyes adjust and surroundings start to become clearer. Almost gently, its cast of characters begin emerging from the smoke. On the at first soothing and later enthralling lounge-funk-to-Led Zep-blues-rock of Dethroned, on Patella and Slow’s seamless meld, and when star quality triumphs over any adversity on the bossa nova Marlene Dietrich.
True clarity arrives on Ascending Forth, a 10-minute stroll hand-in-hand, subtly but constantly marching towards a measured, expertly built crescendo. It may well be the best thing they’ve done to-date.
The elephant in the room regarding debut album Schlagenheim was that, despite the hours of improvisation, the exploring and unfinished strokes and eye contact, it proved to be a far more approachable entity than had been widely expected.
Needing to rein it in wasn’t necessarily the real challenge here. On its follow-up, the rewards for black midi seem to be far less tangible.
Here they’ve found their kicks in the increased instrumentation, in using to their advantage the unknowns the world has thrown at everyone during the past 18 months. In the immeasurable genres on display being brought together whilst solving the puzzle of matching their debut as a cohesive whole.
black midi have been enjoying themselves, and with just enough effort and concentration, so can we.
