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Prescott – One Did


Prescott - One DidOne Did has a Max Wall kind of rhythmic comedy about it, as if the instruments have taken a ministry of silly walks pill, a ganglia of legs skipping the hoots and jaggerations. You wouldn’t be surprised to know that former Stump bassist Kev Hopper is behind this gem. After having his fill of abstract, atmospheric electronica he’s back with a vengeance as Prescott, joined by former Scritti Politti member Rhodri Marsden on keyboards and supporting guitar and Frank Byng on drums. A tirade that breeds some nice irregular metrics, funky falls and even a smidgen of dub.

You could imagine the albums’ artwork animating well with its musical contents. A pattering of joviality in jowls as the sewing machine quick-foots a curve of stitch. The needle splattering forth a rush of colourful divergence like pepper-corned somersaults of percussion . The former Honourable Member of Parliament for Hull East humming out a ditty to the loopic beeps that perform light-hearted surgery on the jangle-cuffing guitars. The sewing machine jumping around, in fits and starts, eating more cloth, hands dancing around the quirky lost stitches in the tune, fanning the fabric that creeps under and out in kiltering directions.

It’s reminiscent in part of Arto Lindsay and The Lounge Lizards  – “Didism”‘s wormery of ideas and mood twitching currents certainly fits the alt-jazz bill, showcasing the deceptively simple yet complex nature of the fayre on offer here. The subverted snares dancing atop those quiver-tipping aerobics on “Military Maids,” the bendy edges and swooning noirs of “Philby Flies” twisting your noggin with relaxing playfulness as it fidgets with plastic Eno gnomes and combing vocodes.

This has a deft genius of touch not dissimilar to Pyrolator‘s Wunderland, but less thin, synthetic, the action lilting a soft furnished Palais Schaumburg of angles full of mischievous Residents’ fingers in multiple pies. The sounds on “Metro Monique” are like a life support unit in the sway of easy listening semitones and slipped diskettes of oily bass; and “Piece of Cake” is like a Blackpool organist with a sciatic spasm. And then the album ends somewhat mysteriously in a silent movie piano accompaniment. If only those Herb Alpert LPs I regularly plough through in charity shops were more like this; just think of the riches.

-Michael Rodham-Heaps-

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