Lamb
Fear of Fours
[Mercury]
Rating: 8.5
Lamb admirably distinguished themselves with their 1997 self- titled
debut. In the wake of Portishead's Dummy, record companies were
fervently signing up any smoky female- fronted producer act. We, the
unfortunate public, had to suffer the wretchedness of their diligent
labors. Mulu, Moloko, Sneaker Pimps, and Hooverphonic-– putrid each and
every one of them.
Lamb, the Mancunian duo of producer Andy Barlow and loose cannon
vocalist Louise Rhodes, stood apart from the rest of the pretenders to
Portishead's throne precisely because they eschewed melodies that
sounded like art students ripping off Burt Bacharach. They concentrated
on arrangements that were barbwired with fierce jungle breaks and
Rhodes' near- hysterics vocals, which were essential for their climb
into critics' hearts, and no where near the wallets of the cattle- fed
morons that constitute the ghastly majority of the listening public.
So, I'm thrilled to report that things have gotten even better on Fear
of Fours. Though it's not as instantly appealing as Lamb's debut, I
assure you, it will grow on you, perhaps even offering a break from Belle
and Sebastian's Tigermilk for a brief spell. Fear of Fours
begins with a crescendoing bolero for the ecstasy generation. "Soft Mistake"
crawls around until the familiar acidic spikes and tugs of a Roland 303
awaken a rush of sexually charged percussion. The layers of sound Barlow
has subdued up to this point then fold over themselves; pliant and malleable,
they resolve in each other. That overture sets the stage for the rest of the
album.
And Lamb don't scrimp on thrills, neither. Lordy! They even get away
with sampling the guitar finale from Simon and Garfunkel's "Sounds of
Silence" on "Little Things." The song's behemoth bass line stalks
Rhodes' curling vocal line as though it's her trailing black dog of
paranoia. And Barlow's electronics exacerbate our impression that these
"Little Things" are largely very schizoid. On "B-Line," Rhodes warns us
that "if I could just compose myself/ I'd radiate just the right amount
of cool and heat." Her vocal delivery on "Fly" is bifurcated so that the
song sounds like a duet between sparring identities in a split personality.
"Bonfire" smolders as only the best torch songs can. The exhilarating "All
in Your hands" begins as a spare acoustic bass- and- 303- driven groove
until Barlow tears the covers off and the song becomes as massive as the
sky above. Only on "Alien" do Rhodes' lyrics get cloying. Her meditation on
pregnancy ("This was a body/ Now it's a home for you/ My little alien/ I
hope it's cozy in there") is hardly groundbreaking.
Naturally, Fear of Fours will be compared to Portishead's 1997
self- titled release, and the comparisons are valid. But unlike other
pretenders, Lamb have adapted the trip-hop model instead of emulating or
banalizing it. Where Portishead's Beth Gibbons' torch songs speak of
yearning, lost lovers, cigarettes, solitude, and abandonment to alcohol,
Lamb's Louise Rhodes chases a release from insanity. She yearns for the
simplicity of reality. She desires things as they are, not things as her
shredded mind has distorted them.
Of course, Rhodes' psychosis is most likely a facade, but she seems to
understand that mentally aberrant women make for fascinating, if somewhat
prurient drama. And Andy Barlow's music underpins each of his partner's
twists and turns with an originality and a daring that should spur
Portishead to break their mold, too.
-Paul Cooper