This is not a review
A review of Baby Brave & The Love Bites ‘The Hornet’s Nest of Unrequited Ambition That Was 1960s Vogue’.
I’m always a little reticent about writing reviews. I worry that they’ve begun to usurp the art. Recently a good friend of mine stated that sometimes, she prefers to read a review over the actual book. I left the conversation feeling depressed.
It’s quite bizarre that in an age when people have unrivalled access to art; have the capacity to consume vast quantities of it every day; are able to carry out independent online research into any aspect they so could desire, that the reviewer is needed at all.
By now the whole process should be obsolete.
I’m becoming increasingly uncertain as to the validity of life lived through other people’s words. Climbing a mountain is not a simple task but I want to do it. With aching legs, pounding heart and a dizzy head I want to throw arms wide at the summit, breathe the air and drink in the view I worked for, that I achieved – my unique experience, not one written in a magazine or posted on You Tube.
It’s almost as if we, as consumers of life, don’t need to have an original thought to attain experience anymore, don’t have to stretch the imagination in the slightest, don’t have to even really try – it’s already been done for us.
They’ll be chewing our food next.
I’m sure at some point in history the review was what it should be, a nice little precursor to experiencing the art. This is less and less the case. The reviewers are pushing forward, elbowing artists out of the way, declaring themselves architects, creators, visionaries. This is not the truth, and it’s why I would cheer to see that behemoth beheaded.
Perhaps a part of the problem with reviewers is that they, figuratively, write the Queens English, and then go about comparing local dialects against this benchmark.
“Woops – they got it wrong with that truncated vowel, how very provincial, twee even.”
Pah.
The reverse could go some way to explaining accusations of cronyism. When you’re immersed in a band’s expeditions, witnessing the hard work put into the creation of their art, you’re rooting for them to succeed, speaking their language, cheering from the sidelines and booing any negative comments made by the referee. This journey embarked upon with the band makes objectivity impossible. But this, for me, is also where the passion comes from.
Which begs the question, what is an objective approach to art?
There isn’t one as far as I’m concerned, no matter how cleverly and wordily it’s tarted up, and just to be clear, objectivity is not something I’m offering here. If I start writing in an objective manner about art get out the gun and shoot me, just shoot me, because I’ll have lost any sense of love, of passion, of delight, I might as well be dead. I’ll be worse than dead, I’ll be a cynic, a know-it-all cynic.
In the meantime and contradictorily, here is a review of Baby Brave & the Love Bites EP, The Hornet’s Nest of Unrequited Ambition That Was 1960s Vogue. It’s a wonderfully pretentious name for an EP that comes as a CD in an envelope printed with swirly, flowery patterns on the front and stamped (with foreign stamps); it’s exciting, like a present, a gift, with a poster inside designed by drummer Mike.
I’m a big fan of Baby Brave. They’re local, Wrexham based, and I’ve experienced many a performance. It’s like watching sunlight tiptoe across waterfalls or finches hop around the garden in spring.
The original carnival of flute-playing, ukulele-strumming, hand-clapping, face-paint-wearing, pantomime-indie routines of Baby Brave now has the additional bass, guitar and drums of The Love Bites to augment their cheery harmonies and truly delightful pop-tunes.
Yes, I’m firmly a BabyBraver/Braveite. The strength of lyrical imagery and gorgeous dancing metaphors is something that’s always attracted me; sitting with eyes closed listening to 24 Blues ‘you’re a minnow swimming up stream, up stream, up stream’ I’m transported to the opening track of an (imaginary) American indie film, perhaps with Ellen Page as the lead character skateboarding along a suburban street with the sun singing along in the sky like in the old Kia-ora ads. Remember those?
Take Your Castles to Spain opens with Jo’s flute and is a wonderfully inventive song about Sam Alper, designer of the Sprite caravan. What a great title. Who writes about obscure caravan designers? Baby Brave does – with style, panache and a nice bit of macramé.
Laisse Le Chick Habit showcases singers Jo and Em’s effortless and elegant understanding of the French language (both have French/Art degrees). It’s a mash-up of France Gall’s 1960s Laisse Tomber Les Filles that was later covered by April March and changed to the current title. It’s great. All sexy/cute French bits, grungy guitars and bangy-drums at the end that just beg your body to thrash around with the obligatory arms in the air – seriously, what’s not to love?
Tying up this review that’s wrapped in a self-conscious post-modern critique of The Review, I want to recount an anecdote recently told to me that I love.
In Scandinavian countries practically everybody creates art. Conversations often lead to discussions about the creative process; your fellow café goers will happily expound on their second novel/poetry collection/album currently in progress. It’s not showing off. It’s just the way it is. It’s part of the culture. There’s a lot less ego, a lot less writing about it all, and a lot more creativity going on.
I like this attitude.
Perhaps this is the way to approach criticism. Instead of grasping for crumbs tossed from the tables of self-declared giants we should seek the opinions of artists we respect and admire; people who are on the same wavelength, speaking the same dialect, climbing that same mountain; artists whose opinions and criticism will be valuable and meaningful for these reasons.
Anybody else who wants to have their opinions taken seriously is welcome to speak out – as long as they’re prepared to don hiking boots, throw away the map, and start climbing.
Written by Sophie McKeand
www.sophiemckeand.com
www.theabsurd.co.uk
Art by Neat Sleeper
