The Jazz Butcher Conspiracy Distressed Gentlefolk/Conspiracy polygram

By JEFF BURTT

Following last year’s Bloody Nonsense, this likeable ensemble garnered a reputation, both here and abroad, as endearing English jesters, with a penchant for musical dexterity. Their previous ability to be adventurous, which precipitated an explosion into disparate styles, eludes them in their latest release.

Distressed Gentlefolk is largely, a departure for the Butcher and chums. This release reveals the band is no longer disheveled and (reading dangerously upon the non-existent fusion between soul music and dirty pop. The Conspiracy attempts a collection of raw, somewhat brooding love songs; the listener's dilemma is that this retreat from self-parody and musical aggression reveals only frustrating glimpses of something more worthwhile.

The light, cocktail hour jazz of "The New World" masks twisting and bleak lyrics, while the anthemous "Angels” is played with less conviction than it deserves. The unfortunate result is that the group fails to transcend the tentative scratchings at the heart of their music.

As the title implies, Distressed Gentlefolk contains a bit too much English reserve. When the lyrics get painful, the music gets playful, and self-deprecation disguises a distaste for showing emotion. On this record the mocking self-caricature of the pop-star is ineffectual, the lyrics curiously edgy and the tongue too firmly planted in cheek.

The highlights are elicited when the band returns to its forte, bringing their not inconsiderable talents to bear on the bright, tuneful songs which characterized prior releases. "Domestic Animal" employs a campy lyric and superimposes a burgeoning guitar riff upon a whippersnapper high-hat skitter. "Nothing Special” is fueled by a chiming guitar which heightens the song’s bouncy progression.

In retrospect, I prefer these emphysemic ditties of ligament snapping proportion to the half-hearted, arm-wrestling poignance of the ballads. The Butcher and army need to find the right targets for their obvious wit and musical ability. Until they do, there remains the feeling they’ve conspired to make a record that could have been great, rather than merely pleasant.

Distressed Gentlefolk

We were deeply confused young men when we made this record. Max, Jones and I had all been drinking dangerously for over a year now. Generally, we had it down in concert. In just about every other department, however, we were coming to bits, individually and collectively, and to me this record actually shows the morbid state of things at the time.

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