That bloated, polluted behemoth of a city looms wide on the horizon once again. Acting like a tractor beam for the great, the not so great and the downright hopeless, London has been a teeming major settlement for over two millennia. With an album cover that looks like a Year 6 collage, sporting the underground sign, directions to Camden Town and a polaroid of that most London of sights, the red double-decker bus, everything about this CD screams the big city and life in the urban jungle. Like hundreds of thousands of budding musicians who have made their way to England's capital, Martin Newnham upped sticks, taking with him his guitar and his own brand of citified skiffle-folk.
Billed as a charismatic singer-songwriter of the urban-folk genre, Martin Newnham succeeds in producing an album of rather lo-fi folk-musings, inspired by his ten-years in the big smoke: however, rather than offerings based on such glorious experiences as buying knock-off DVDs on Tottenham Court Road, paying £500 a week for a window-box in Islington, and electing Boris Johnson for mayor (what an album that would be), we have melancholic yearning for the girl-no-longer ("Come Back Gracey" and the opener, "I Can't Turn Around"), relationship problems ("Bring You Sunshine") and dodgy music agents ("No").
Indeed, it becomes apparent rather quickly that the vast majority of Newnham's songs are about women. And normally the absent kind. If he's not sending inappropriate late night texts to one ("Done"), he's dreaming about another ("I Can't Turn Around") or waking up alone ("Away"). And of the few songs that remain, "As Night Falls" retells the rather gloomy tale of a soldier and his sweetheart, separated by war. Upon the warrior's return to the homestead, he discovers his gal in the arms of another, and takes his own life. A tragedy of Shakespearean proportions, but hardly the break that the listener is looking for after six tracks of social and sexual failure. So, if lyrically speaking, the album is not particularly varied, how does it shape up musically?
"Can't Turn Around", a jittery skiffle-infused two-step is upbeat enough, augmented by muted trumpets (there are more of those to come later) and Newnham's beat-in voice. "Ellie When" picks up a similarly shuffly skiffle beat and a lolloping double-bass, turning the whole thing into a country barn dance, transported to Hanwell. For the most the music is of the light folk variety, occasionally lifted by a recurring brass theme, the odd fiddle (courtesy of Andy Parkin, brother of another Isle of Wight product, The Bees' Tim Parkin) and even a sousaphone (at least according to the CD insert).
"Come Back Gracey", the first single to slip off the album, is a nicely syncopated ditty, the lyrical content perfectly suiting Newnham's slightly world-weary urban drawl. Indeed, if anything can be said for Newnham, at least you can feel his disappointment as each attempt with the opposite sex crumbles around him. And whilst it's true that some of the tracks begin to merge a little too easily into one large wrist-slitting mope, optimism occasionally shines through. "Bring You Sunshine", with its hand-clap breakdown, bright 'n' brassy horns and pleasingly buoyant mood, is a welcome respite. It's the sort of track that Paolo Nutini has made his own on his latest album, Sunny Side Up, and could well benefit from a Jools Holland appearance, complete with thirteen minute boogie-woogie piano solo and gospel choir. On second thoughts, scratch that last one. "Close" is another of his "happy songs" even if it comes across initially as an ode to one-night stands and sexual promiscuity (although far be it for me to suggest that happiness cannot be found in a central-London toilet cubicle at 3am). Despite these early misunderstandings, it's actually a sweet ditty about a sweet lady who gives our world-weary hero (and the listener) a much needed break. The tinkling bar-room piano break and a scratchy 6/8 beat makes it the sort of song to which you could slow dance your very own one night stand down the cold London streets and across the bedroom floor.
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"No" is the only song on the album that doesn't discuss women in any shape or form, although I needed the press release to work out who it was directed at (cut-throat music industry agents, if you're interested). It's got a white-boy funk-lite feel to it, complete with the megaphone-esque vocals, those self-same horns and swirling Hammond organs. This is quickly followed by "Done", more self-pitying pinings for a girl (it surely can't be the same one?). The song is stripped, trudging, the music sparse and limited. A mournful harmonica, like a toothless hobo on the last train out of town, shows just how low Newnham has fallen.
By the end of the album, the listener is experiencing similar sentiments to the "Done" protagonist: "And I ache I'm sick of sad songs". Perhaps the next time around, Newnham should move to somewhere warm, sunny and tropical. Indeed, whilst there's no disputing the sincerity in Newnham's songs, you begin to question whether London is really for him. At times sweet, but for the most part just a little morose, you get the impression that his ten years in London have been nothing but a succession of failed relationships and teenager-like brooding. I shall certainly think twice before packing my bags for the city, if these eleven songs are anything to go by.
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