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THE TROPICS OF CANCER
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Fittingly for such a master-class in midnight mores our first sip is a surreal shiver through ‘Upside Down’...yarse, Ms Ross’ disco diva classic magicked into an exquisite mambo jive, hot under the collar vocals whispered like incantations and curses by a private eye straight outta Chandler as the indigenous poison administered by his lap-dancing Laotian goddess takes full effect and heaves-ho the anchor on his hallucinogenic express taking in coconut growing hip-hop from Middle Eastern bazouks (‘The International Sweet 16’), Schnapps soused Germans grimacing in shell-shocked delirium between murderous mortar blasts and nightmare nursery rhymes from a flatlining Brothers Grimm (‘Trollmors Vuggesang’), sassily sardonic put-down ‘Balls To Call’ – surface sweet as Rosemary Clooney singing a 1950’s TV ad for domestic products whilst delivering an earthy riposte to her handsome chap for not calling – and myriad mordant folk tunes plucked from hillsides, vineyards and decaying farmhouses. Oh, and Bauhaus’ ‘Honeymoon Croon’ spit-roasting (in the traditional tribal sense) Alien Sex Fiend on ‘Angie!’
Moreso
than the Stars this is evocative, unceasingly creative and cinematic
soundscapery that’d perfectly accompany arthouse noir, Spillane style
slick dickery and nocturnal ‘Nosferatu’ wanderings (see the twitching ‘Tricoteuse’).
Highly and heartily recommended. |
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-Stu Gibson |
The
Tropics are Flaming Star Joe Whitney and a gathering of
London’s kitsch cats and gangster chic underground gutter hounds
(including Jake Vegas, Urbane Voodoo Machine P.R. Angel and brother Flamer
Huck). This here is a collection of recordings from various speakeasies,
cellar casinos and upstairs back-rooms of east-end back-alley boozers from
1992 to 2004. A low-key affair conducted appropriately at street ends so
dark everyday folk are wary and speak only hearsay about what goes in the
house on the corner...if it’s occupied at all. Restlessly
inventive...intoxicatingly hypnotic...a sultry stew flambé-ing the Flaming
Stars further into flamenco flavoured Latino bordellos and sweaty oriental
opium dens (the rather wondrous and beautifully sung ‘Ue O Muite
Aruko’ which sounds like Geisha girls dancing on rose petals while
levitating on flute and xylophone mists)...rounds of cards played, deals
shook...suckers shook down in experimental folk lounges of Eno ethereal
swinging rags and raging voodoo vibes.