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The Black Heart Procession/Simon Breed (live)

Pall A. Jenkins 93 Feet East, London 9 July 2001

Simon Breed“Bosses, They’re all cunts, pricks wankers and shits – does anyone here like their boss?” Well, those were similar words to the ones I muttered when Simon Breed nearly trampled me in his stampede to the bar pre-showtime. He was allegedly referring to his boss, or bosses in general. The same song also proclaimed him to sound like Bruce Springsteen, make what you will of that. The sound system is crap, there was a bug on the wall, and the bar on which I am trying to write is shifting constantly with a serious threat to collapsing. Not a good start really, but I will calm down and give it a chance.

I am here at 93 Feet

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The Black Heart Procession – Love Sings A Sunrise

Label: Speakerphone Format: 7″

LSSR - sleeve detailTucked away on this seven inch disc of transparent red plastic is one of Black Heart Procession‘s mini masterpieces of melancholic glorying in the sadness of things in general and the passing of time in particular. “Love Sings A Sunrise” coasts on a slow-turning beat and a lambent shimmer of electronic detritus, with Pall Jenkins‘s mournfoul voice declaiming his lost love as the band back up in the background, or possibly another room entirely. To the plangent chimes of a sad guitar, the song unwinds its sorrowful way to drown sorrows in booze and self-reproach, expressed quietly in the piano strokes of eventual rising redemption. It’s a throughly beautiful misery from a band who know exactly how to make the heart bleed without giving self-pity a bad name in the process, and one to be treasured.

B-side

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The Black Heart Procession – Three

Label: Touch & Go Format: CD,LP

Three - sleeveLet’s give Three” the moodiest album of 2000 award. If we are passing out any awards that is. Black Heart Procession capture gloom and wrap it up in matte-coloured cowboy Goth like nobody’s business. Unfeigned resignation to everything is the raison d’etre and the low level chronic depressive sound topped up with teardrop pianos and rimmed with just right amount of experimental noises blends into a heavy, heavy roll sans rock that is so specific it is difficult to pigeon-hole. There is no real climax or decent, but an even tonal and disonant string-out of sadness.

Still Pall Jenkins, Tobias Nathaniel, Jason Crane and their accomplices do like to play around a little with weird horns, telephone manipulations, a singing saw, space echoes and probably whatever else is to hand. It must be said that their

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