Clayhill: Clayhill review
There’s something beautiful about the sound of ‘Clayhill’. ‘Figure of Eight’ is testament to what can be done with dulcet tones and a whispering guitar. Gavin Clark’s vocals summon memories of the frightening sentiment in Sting’s ‘Every breath you take’. The power of the song comes not from the shouts or the screams or even from the beat. It is derived from the majesty of Clark’s slow, deliberate vocal stresses. ‘Northern Soul’ is the track where Clark raises his voice for the first time and you believe in his passion as he laments what’s lost, as if he were in private conversation with his band and guitar and not playing such a message to millions. ‘Mystery Train’ has the bleakness of a ghost story.
Indeed, all the songs are of the mellow rock ilk recently popularised by the talented Emiliana Torrini. There’s little variation in terms of rhythms or beats from track to track and listening to this album all in one go does lead to one developing the impression that variety really wasn’t on Clayhill’s agenda. But why mess with a winning formula? Why change the medium of the expression of your heart when the guitar and the voice are doing just fine as a communicator? Clayhill produce music simply. As such, the sentiment shines through.
What the NME calls the: ‘rustic recording’ does drain the power from the atmosphere’s livewire to the extent that this is not the record destined for the dance floor. There’s a soulful element to the piece and The Fly magazine will have you believe that the record has ‘life-affirming’ qualities. It’s true that the record comes ready packaged with a heartfelt message of deliberate contemplation. You have to think about what you hear. You need to listen. You need to understand. But is the private meditation accessible to all? Can a record, which is locked within the emotional baggage of a group of men, really reach out and touch a mass audience? Is the guitar a prophet on this record or is it merely a crutch for Clark and the others to rest their weary bodies? For ‘Clayhill’ sounds like music travellers play at the end of their journey. What is soft and beautiful is all too often forced into the sound of regret. Indeed, the long, drawn out notes at the conclusion of many of the tracks would tend to suggest that the singer cries through his lyrics, wailing at an injustice in the peace and tranquillity of a mellow opera. Beware of the beautiful and the beautifully expressed. There’s always method behind the madness, a message behind the music.