The Graveyard and the Ballroom

So a few days ago, I watched Anton Corbijn's film Control, about Ian Curtis (primarily) and Joy Division (by extension).

I thought it was good if you knew about the band. If you'd never heard of Joy Division, then I'd imagine the film would come off as still sad and affecting, but kind of a snooze. Everything in it was filtered through a stark, but somehow luxurious black and white look. The emotional content was passed through a similar filter-- dialogue was muttered under the breath, all poses crisp and obviously staged. The ultimate effect was stiltedness, distance-- which I imagine was meant to echo Curtis' feelings of isolation and emotional pain.

But that's not really what I wanted to talk about. I wanted to (since I've been listening to some classics of the genre) talk about the movement that seems to be called post-punk, and one band in particular's album, The Graveyard and the Ballroom.

The group is called A Certain Ratio (certain bands' propensities for messing about with Nazi ide- and terminology remains consistent). They rose up in the formidable shadow of Joy Division, sharing a link through Factory Records.

Their sound was somewhat similar, but different enough to allure. Whereas Joy Division had a hollow, booming sort of sound, A Certain Ratio fell firmly on the kinetic side of angst. Just take a listen to the opening track, "Do the Du":

http://theguydeborians.wordpress.com/2009/07/31/do-the-du/

(And honestly, if you could only listen to one Certain Ratio track, this would definitely be it, at least off of Graveyard and Ballroom). The hollow, declamatory vocal delivery is there, and a corpulent, aggressive bassline, but Joy Division never flirted with this kind of spidery funk. The guitars chatter away at the edges like St. Vitus-ing skeletons and some sort of listless chorus keeps up the handclaps. The overall effect is like getting beaten with a chain-link fence. Meanwhile, singer Simon Topping lists off his lobotomized series of visceral observations and complaints, like Jeffrey Dahmer writing a goodbye note to his girlfriend. ("My heart was just/ An open sore/ Which you picked at/ 'Til it was raw").

Not a song that goes down easy. More of a formaldehyde cocktail, really. The second half of the album showcases a live set, where the band was opening for Talking Heads. The melodies are somewhat lacking-- or, in some cases, not really there-- but of course I doubt they're meant to be. It's all about that scritchy beat and war-zone guitars. Highly recommended for fans of Factory Records, Gang of Four, Talking Heads, and anyone who likes hyperactive gloom (and I do mean gloom-- listening to "Crippled Child" all the way through is like listening to Caligari's somnambulist spell out your personal demise). It's got teeth, and to quote Ian Curtis, "And we could dance!"