Important music begins with a blank canvas and not a page from a colouring book...
Enter Bostonian Beatleniks Myracle Brah whose second album takes us back to that battle between the massed forces of modernity and the People's Republic of Paul Weller's Brain. It's chirpy, it's cheeky, and in its twilight world of Dansettes and Chelsea boots, it speaks with the firm belief that punk rock and acid house never really happened.
'Plate Spinner' veers from the achingly sincere to the unattractively smug; 'Treat Her Right' has an approximation of the keyboard break from The Zombies' 'Time Of The Season' smeared across its middle section. You can take it as a good-humoured in-joke if you will, or an open-handed insult if you're prepared to be bothered about such things.
Perhaps Myracle Brah's tragedy is that, after 12 tracks of seamless pastiche, you honestly can't. 'Plate Spinner' does its thang and there's nothing squirrelled away among its nut-pile of British Invasion fantasies that threatens to add anything to the sum of human knowledge. Melodies by the bowlful, sure, but since when was that enough?
Important music begins with a blank canvas and not a page from a colouring book.
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