When UK new wavers Japan broke up in 1982, the members predictably splintered off into various directions, and the highest profiles belonged to Mick Karn and David Sylvian. Over the decades the latter has amassed a solo and collaborative discography of unlikely reach and impressiveness; however, giving a fresh listen to ‘84’s Brilliant Trees makes abundantly clear Sylvian’s career trajectory isn’t as surprising as it might initially seem.
Upon consideration, very few musicians who made their name in the pop sphere have aged as well as David Sylvian. Of course, this is mainly due to his choice after Japan’s dissolution (they briefly reunited for one self-titled ’91 album under the name Rain Tree Crow) to gradually leave the milieu that fostered his initial reputation. The subsequent journey led him into the outlying territories of experimentation and the avant-garde, though this shouldn’t give the false impression that Sylvian’s post-Japan oeuvre is devoid of pop elements.
As a youngster of the ‘80s, I knew little of Japan, my discovery of Sylvian supplied by his ’87 collaboration with Ryuichi Sakamoto, Secrets of the Beehive. The introduction was made through the frequent play and promotion of said disc by my hometown Mom & Pop record mart, an enterprise also involved in the sale of high end stereo equipment.
To my teen mind any system comprised of separate components was high end, and at the time Secrets of the Beehive basically eluded me, as did much “deep-listening” material attached to ambient, new age, minimalism, art-pop etc. Reengaging with Sylvian as a mature adult provided, if not an epiphany than another instance aiding the realization that artistic assessments work in tandem with personal growth, therefore flouting finality.
Naturally, any full appreciation of Sylvian need encompass Japan, a rare example of a new wave act shaped as much by art rock as punk. At first this circumstance derived largely from instrumental proficiency; early albums Adolescent Sex and Obscure Alternatives (both ’78) each have their moments (“Communist China” and “Television” from the debut, the title cut and “Love is Infectious” from the follow-up), but the attributed glam influences are correct, as is a problematic desire to funk it up.
In fact, flare-ups of funkiness remained even after Japan turned a corner in developmental glam with ‘79’s Quiet Life, trading in the Dolls, keeping Bowie and upping the Roxy Music, specifically Bryan Ferry, a vocalist Sylvian more than superficially resembled. Here, the sporadic tendencies toward grooving go down much easier, especially as the ambitiousness increased on ‘80’s Gentlemen Take Polaroids and ‘81’s Tin Drum, their finale with the exception of Rain Tree Crow and ‘83’s Oil on Canvas, a live double adorned with three instrumental studio tracks.
Often pegged (arguably erroneously) as New Romantics, by Tin Drum Japan was considerably afield from the gooey-sweet center of the movement, and furthermore they stand as one of the few new wave units that significantly improved over time, a factor casually forecasting the qualitative trajectory of Sylvian’s ensuing output.
And that thread commences with Brilliant Trees. If Japan was frequently as prone to art-rock as new wave, Sylvian’s first solo appearance only amplified this condition; along with contributions from his bandmates Steve Jansen and Richard Barbieri, there’s Sakamoto, Holger Czukay of Can, veteran double bassist Danny Thompson, guitarist Ronny Drayton (a frequent sideman of James Blood Ulmer and others) the great trumpeter/flugelhorn player Kenny Wheeler, and an additional pair of trumpeters, Mark Isham (noted as a film composer), and Jon Hassell (known to many for his work with Brian Eno).
Uptempo opener “Pulling Punches” quickly establishes an unabashedly art-funk state of affairs, the vigorously popping bass delving into a groove spiked by horns and Sylvian’s assured and unperturbed croon; it’s a sound easily pinpointed to the decade of its making, though it transcends datedness, the setting nicely enhanced by increasingly potent string wrangling and as the cut progresses the fluttering of Czukay’s French horn.
The track vindicates its placement in the sequence, instantly commanding attention and holding it, and it leads to the slower, jazzier climes of “The Ink in the Well.” As a guitar airily strums, Sylvian’s baritone timbre is supported by loose, huge tugs of double bass, Thompson’s notes also blending with keyboard and Wheeler’s expert flugelhorn.
In some ways “Nostalgia” suggests ‘80s Bryan Ferry enveloped in the sensibilities his former bandmate Eno was honing during the same period, its moody atmosphere partially formed by hovering synth tones and a voice more than hinting at ruminations made inside a smoky late-night lounge. There’s also an opening Eastern vocal motif, a dab of guitar sting and further commentary from Wheeler.
While Sylvian would eventually work with Derek Bailey, Evan Parker, Christian Fennesz, Jon Butcher, Otomo Yoshihide, Keith Rowe, John Tilbury, and Eddie Prévost, all mainstays from the free/ electroacoustic improvisational communities, it bears repeating that Sylvian’s pop departure wasn’t a clean break. Indeed, three singles were culled from Brilliant Trees; the first was “Red Guitar,” which climbed to #17 on the UK singles chart.
Certainly pop oriented, in part due to Sylvian’s still growing abilities as a singer (and writer for that matter), it wields an aura of sophistication familiar from the last couple years of Japan’s run, panache aided by Sakamoto’s piano, the chime-clusters of his brief solo in particular, followed shortly thereafter by Isham’s equally concise trumpet spot.
Side two begins with “Weathered Wall,” one of two co-written with Hassell, who also adds treated, occasionally wheezy trumpet to the piece. Along with some intriguingly distant vocal bursts intermittently surfacing throughout the methodically paced if subtly tense composition, Hassell’s blowing helps craft one of Brilliant Trees’ stranger entries, and it opens the less poppy of the two sides (the second and third singles were “The Ink in the Well” and “Pulling Punches”).
And if “Weathered Wall” is tense, after a steadily rising ambient prelude capped with Modernist strings, the mood of “Backwaters” is downright edgy, its engine running on Sylvian’s narrative and a cyclical, distorted theme sounding like it’s plucked on electrified rubber bands; it’s soon doubled by sharp, clanging percussion (or perhaps detuned piano).
Hassell returns for the extended closing title track (and other writing credit), his instrumental input more prominent across both the baroque-informed (as in Bach, not the Left Banke) first half and the substantially abstract latter portion; if Brilliant Trees opens with a bang it ends quietly, the musicians unraveling a tapestry of pure sound.
That covers the seven selections completing the original release. Some have assessed the ’84 issue as uncommonly short, but I disagree, as the running time totals nearly 40 minutes. That’s perfectly suitable length for an LP, but in ’94 Caroline Records paired the album on compact disc with the three-part a-side to ’85’s “Words with the Shaman” EP. A nice gesture; it’s not the version reviewed here.
Many discerning fans of sonic adventurousness got clued in to David Sylvian via ’99 Dead Bees on a Cake as others discovered him through ‘03’s Blemish; lovers of contempo avant-improvisation might’ve stumbled upon ‘09’s Manafon. Some of those listeners have surely initiated the legwork necessary to forge a relationship with the man’s earlier stuff; for those who haven’t, a healthy dose of Japan followed by Brilliant Trees is the proper way to get acquainted.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
A-
