Cinerama

w/Versus,

Rainer Maria
Crocodile, 2200 Second Ave, 441-5611, Wed Nov 1, 9 pm, $10/$12.

SINGER DAVID GEDGE is one of the nicest men I know. In the early ’90s, I wrote a scathing review of his collection of Wedding Present singles, The Hit Parade–the one that compiled the Leeds, England band’s monthly series of seven-inch records. Okay, it was fun the way the limited editions showed up the U.K. charts for the shallow hype they are: Each song hit Top 40, despite being released in extremely limited quantities. I didn’t appreciate the way each one ripped off different U.S. bands, be they Pavement, Smog, or Superchunk. So I said so, in no uncertain words. It was the sort of career-crippling article I used to regularly write that led artists like Miki, the flame-haired chanteuse from U.K. shoegazers Lush, to say she wanted to “put [his] balls in a vice, and squeeze–very slowly,” and would move Thurston Moore to threats of physical violence. David didn’t give a fuck. He just shrugged those bushy, rather sexy eyebrows of his next time I saw him, and remarked that he was sure I’d like his music again sometime. He even went so far as to suggest that perhaps we should meet for a coffee next time around. Okay, David… sure.

Still, a few years previous, I had been praising his collaboration with Steve Albini, the fiery Brassneck EP, to the heavens. I had also been a very early champion of his band’s patented wall-of-guitars, strained voice, loser romantic sound–borrowed a fraction from seminal early ’80s Scots band Orange Juice, but played with enough soul and self-belief for it not to matter. I never quite understood the Smiths comparisons the British music press tried to make during the late ’80s. David had never been a professional wallower in misery. To me, the Weddoes had always been akin to John Robb’s pre-grunge Membranes and an obvious rock band, albeit one that presaged the rise of Nirvana with their feminine, sensitive lyrics. The Wedding Present, most importantly, made my feet want to dance. The Smiths, much as I may have liked to hide in my room for hours on end and listen to Hüsker Dü’s “Eight Miles High” with the volume turned up full on my tiny Dansette mono portable record player, never did that. Listen to the Wedding Present’s scorching late-’80s album George Best for proof.

I remember once playing David at football (soccer), and thinking that much as I have two left feet, he must have three. Girls I know, bleedin’ everywhere, swoon at the merest mention of his name. Maybe that’s because the sort of people I hang with make the cast of High Fidelity look like Creem critics writing lines like, “Aerosmith is as good as coming in your pants at a drive-in at age 12 with your little sister’s baby-sitter calling the action….”

Sorry, I digress.

David has a new band, Cinerama–named after a film process originated some time during the ’50s–and you know what? He was right. I like them. Their first album, 1998’s Va Va Voom, sounded perhaps too similar to Lightning Seeds’ synthesizer-led pop in retrospect, but hey, Dave was making a point. You don’t need to rely on guitars to survive. His voice sounds mellower, more restrained than in the Wedding Present; the presence of Sally Murrell’s gentile backing vocals lend an almost Franco-pop edge, the keyboards sweetened even further by blasts of trumpet and the odd lustful refrain.

I e-mailed David, told him the good news that I was a fan again. He was pleased, asked after my whereabouts and those of my good lady friend. He’s like that: concerned.

I’m not the only old contact he’s gotten back in touch with, though. Mr. Steve Albini is back behind the console, and the result is the new Cinerama album, a record that mixes and matches David’s obvious love for the symphonic ’60s pop of Burt Bacharach and Serge Gainsbourg with a slightly more abrasive sound. (Do I need to spell it out? This combines the cream of David’s ’80s output with the cream of his ’90s work.) The absolute standout is the epic “Wow!” where guitars rush and jangle like a waterfall…. “I don’t want to leave my girlfriend!” the smitten one calls out, “But wow! This isn’t happening as I planned.”

If you see him in Seattle, tell him that Everett True sends a big shout out. Lovely fellow.