\ Hip Displeasure: Darrin Frew » Music » Alexi Murdoch and the Singer Songwriter Morass

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Sunday, July 23, 2006

Darrin Frew » Music » Alexi Murdoch and the Singer Songwriter Morass

Singer songwriters It's their ever-so-humble arrogance that makes you want to scream.

You see, 40 years after The Beatles played Indian scales backwards on distorted guitars and then looped them through a mellotron all the while chanting extracts from The Tibetan Book of the Dead, hoards of buttoned down expectants in sensible shoes still insist on springing forth with the hopelessly misguided belief that some rudimentary guitar chords hushly strummed over the banal reminiscences of the not-so-deep (typical lyric; boy disobeys mother, climbs tree, falls grazing knee) but definitely introverted, qualifies in 2006 - 2006, people! - as a legitimate form of entertainment.

They are most definitely wrong.

Step forward then production no. 18447 from the ruffly haired convey belt of tat - or Alexi Murdoch as his designer spectacled, demographics wielding, negotiating-with-an-ad-agency-
on-the-cellphone-RIGHT-NOW! publicists would rather he be called when he emerges, beautiful but dim, from the converted barn that he probably lives in.

The album is called 'Time Without Consequence', a title laden with all the dark humour you’ll ever need as you ponder the 59 minutes 40 seconds of wasted life endured while ensconced in his not particularly unique brand of laid back turpitude.

Over the course of this musical equivalent of flipping through carpet samples – ON A SUNDAY – he offers such sage advice as “don’t forget how to breath”, produces Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe style epigrammatical genius (“you don’t need strength to be strong” and, yes, you have correctly identified sarcasm) waxes lyrical about windmills and assorted rustic imagery bullshit and then fries our brains with his out there musical experimentation. That’s right, he uses a cymbal on one track to augment the folkie guitar.

All this leads irrevocably to a single conclusion.

If you’re single and have worn an ankle length gypsy skirt at some point this summer, there is the remote possibility that, at times of hormonal imbalance, you might actually find something attractive in Murdoch’s hackneyed troubadouring. However, to we more hard-headed fans of music, I’m afraid Mr Murdoch represents nothing more than an other stale acoustic drone ripe for a slapping with his own fashionable galosh.

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