Active since 1991, The Clientele didn’t cut a single until seven years later, and with 2000’s Suburban Light, a well-deserved spotlight was finally splashed upon them. A thoughtfully sequenced collection of tracks mostly culled from their inaugural spate of 45s, it transcended the potential constraints of a compilation and flowed like an especially assured debut album. Merge Records’ LP reissue comes loaded with extra insightful early material, and it reinforces Suburban Light as a masterful statement of guitar-pop purpose from an enduringly unique group.
From 1991 to the present The Clientele has featured drummer Mark Keen, bassist James Hornsey, and guitarist-vocalist-songwriter Alasdair MacLean; guitarist Innes Phillips exited in ’96, multi-instrumentalist Mel Draisey entered roughly a decade hence. Over time they’ve been quite forthcoming in relating key influences upon their collective endeavor; on the list can be found such worthies as Love, Television, Felt, and even The West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band.
After giving a few recent spins to the reissued Suburban Light it seems the most lingeringly illuminating citation from the group belongs to Galaxie 500, that Cambridge, MA trio breaking up the very same year The Clientele first came together in Hampshire, England (under the name The Butterfly Collectors). But it’s more than just the handing off of a creative baton; Galaxie 500 was an entity inextricably shaped by the music of the 1960s, and yet they betrayed not the slightest tendencies of throwback. And so it is with The Clientele.
From old resources a fresh sound, and if not new both acts resonated as highly individual. Once heard it would be impossible to confuse the two or for that matter to mistake either for anybody else. Suburban Light’s opener “I Had to Say This” exudes origins easy to discern, but MacLean’s soaring vocal and adept string work point the way forward, his playing tense and unpredictable long before the astoundingly non-hackneyed backwards guitar ambiance emerges.
Along with intensifying the unexpected, the reverse-tracking unequivocally underlines from where the band’s distinctiveness draws inspiration. As does “Rain,” which shares a succinct title with one of The Beatles’ greatest moments, though here The Clientele nods to the twee just a bit, all while being too assertive and psych-inclined to be accurately described as wispy and/or tagged as precious.
In a manner similar to Galaxie 500’s Today, Suburban Light reveals uncommon instrumental balance and strength, the Brits’ cohesiveness reflective of substantial experience under the radar; in particular, Keen’s drumming shrewdly moves from robust propulsion on “I Had to Say This” to crisp, far from basic backing on “Rain,” while the gentle and gorgeous “Reflections After Jane” introduces an even sparser environment. It considerably deepens The Clientele’s already tangible control of tone and mood.
But contrasting is how The Clientele (ending a roughly three year hiatus with a small tour in July) felt like an operation with a clearly defined leader, in this case MacLean, as it so frequently is with singer-guitarist-writers. To wit, “We Could Walk Together” opens as a spurt of syllables drenched in characteristics absorbed from late-‘60s Brit psych-pop (remaining vital 15 years after recording), his gush combined with imagery worthy of a man holding an honors degree in Literature (more on that below). And then the ensemble rises, led by MacLean’s chiming guitar.
The Clientele dependably connected as a band though, a factor not only refreshing but pretty essential to their overall success, both in terms of longevity and in regard to creativity. Where Galaxie 500 sustained a blend of New Zealand-level melodic rock mastery (Dean Wareham is a Kiwi transplant) crossed with New England/Ivy League atmosphere (they began practicing while attending Harvard), The Clientele established traits appealingly bookish and most decidedly Anglo.
“Monday’s Rain” is a gradually unfolding centerpiece, its vocal harmonies reinforcing a lush, spacious quality, and on this occasion the guitar hangs back. Keen is unfussy but expressive, the adjective jazzy appropriate here, while Hornsey is a sensitive anchor, never laying a note wrong. The extended length of “Monday’s Rain” wisely avoids meandering, and is a gem of instrumental subtlety.
And like Galaxie, The Clientele is legitimately psychedelic, but neither outfit is gratuitous or gaudy, which is an achievement worth mentioning given the abovementioned backwards guitar. Instead, an organic twisting of reality is palpable, and the dedication to the surreal is maybe the strongest connective tissue between the two outfits.
Post breakup, Galaxie 500’s Damon Krukowski and Naomi Yang did more than commence recording as a duo, they started Exact Change, a publishing company in large part devoted to returning the works of numerous Dada/Surrealist figures, amongst them Alfred Jarry, Louis Aragon, André Breton, Salvador Dalí, Kurt Schwitters, and Joseph Cornell, to easy availability.
MacLean has always seemed passionate over the music that’s informed The Clientele, but rather than just a record collector he’s also known as a book lover (I’d bet sawbucks to coffeecakes his shelves contain a few Exact Change editions) and art hound (he’s also a painter). That Lit degree helped me to form that assumption, but folks well-familiar with Suburban Light surely know its sixth track.
“Joseph Cornell” finds them at their most forceful, further jazziness coming courtesy of MacLean’s axe, the lyrics amplifying the tune as more than just casual homage. To the contrary, knowledge of Cornell’s found-art aesthetic, including his fascinating boxed assemblages (they’re part of The Museum of Modern Art’s collection) and the brilliant montage film Rose Hobart (a sui generis creation featuring documentary footage inserted into a wildly reedited and greatly shortened junk shop 16mm print of East of Borneo, a 1931 B-film starring the titular actress/Cornell obsession) intensify the link.
The depth of the Clientele/Cornell relationship is noticeably intensified in “An Hour Before the Light,” its fragile psych bookended by MacLean’s voice seemingly stitched onto the whole after being removed from somewhere else. It’s psychedelic and certainly surreal, though far from the masculine flexing of Alejandro Jodorowsky and even David Lynch, instead falling into the tradition of Jean Vigo, the mature works of Luis Buñuel and indeed Cornell (to compare exclusively to filmmakers).
By now the elements are well-established, and “(I Want You) More than Ever” weds them to another solid tune; the writing throughout Suburban Light is strong and at times exquisite. Also, while small of scale the studio technique is outstanding; “Saturday” is cleverly executed, the methodically flourishing instrumentation blending with MacLean’s vocals and gliding to an extremely pretty conclusion.
Additionally, “Five Day Morning” is structurally magnificent via sturdier rhythmic bedrock and splendidly understated guitar soloing, and the airy brevity of “Bicycles” compliments the reflection of its lyrics. “As Night is Falling” is another expanded selection, adding washes of deftly simple organ and what sounds like manipulated recordings of wind as the cut stretches out and shifts in intensity. “Lace Wings” adds more glistening and in this instance somewhat Hawaiian-inclined strings, and the LP ends with assurance; the program logically follows the sequencing of the 2000 UK pressing.
Merge’s initial US release was a slightly altered version, though the songs specific to it are here in the accompanying bonus download. It’s a serving both generous and necessary, with nary a bum track in the ten. These extras accentuate how over time Suburban Light has taken on the status of compilation; 2003’s excellent The Violet Hour is generally considered their first “real” album.
I’m not sure I agree with this disc’s designation as a merely a comp, though. Scores of debuts from the era of The Clientele’s deepest inspiration largely consisted of singles; frankly, many contempo units would benefit from employing the same tactic (a Clientele compilation that happens to make a nice addendum to Suburban Light is It’s Art, Dad, which collects the output of the ’91-’97 Phillips lineup).
Three of this record’s entries were previously unreleased circa 2000, anyway. One of them was “Joseph Cornell,” and like the work of that American original, Suburban Light is a masterpiece of inspired assemblage; after consideration, it’s not only one of the finest LPs of its year, it also stands among the best of the ‘00s.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
A+
