Originally released as a private press in 1979, the sole self-titled effort from Australian songwriter and multi-instrumentalist Steve Warner is undoubtedly a niche item, but it’s also a consistently enjoyable and occasionally intriguing collection emanating nary a trace of outsider vibes. Additionally, there’s an unusual amount of range on display across its 13 tracks, so ears attuned to psych-kissed folk balladeering enhanced by appreciable skill on guitar, bass, piano, and more may find Warner of interest; he returns to print January 22 on vinyl, compact disc, and digital through Earth Recordings.
Steve Warner reportedly honed his chops in the Melbourne acoustic folk and coffee house scene, and he immediately exhibits deftness bred from experience on his only recording. It’s a private press affair paid for via bank loan and council grant, but there is basically nothing off-kilter or amateurish about this painstakingly conceived project.
Warner cut the LP across three years with the assistance of Nick Armstrong at Spectangle Studio, the same facility where his fellow Aussie Howard Enyon made his only record So What If Im Standing in Apricot Jam. No doubt some recall Earth’s reissue of Enyon’s platter a couple of years back; Apricot Jam was initially released on the tiny Basket enterprise in 1974, but it took until ‘79 for Steve Warner to briefly emerge on the Tasmanian Candle label.
Frankly, that was a little late in the musical game for the sound Warner had crafted. Just as bluntly, those who require a modicum of edge in their listening choices (and by extension abjure the lightness of the hippie-folk ‘60s and the maturing mellowness of the following decade) should probably steer clear of Steve Warner.
To these lobes his endeavor isn’t accurately pegged as mellow, however. Laid back maybe, and certainly many will assess the distinction as splitting hairs, but airy folk elements and waves of archaic synth aside, the preponderance of piano in opener “Summer” establishes a sensibility that’s rather adult in nature. Complete with lyrics, as the song progresses the worthiness of Warner’s writing becomes quite apparent.
“Hey, Hosanna” offers acid-dipped eccentricity in place of “Summer”’s atmosphere of relative seriousness, though the shift in mood shouldn’t be misread as a plunge into private press oddity. Instead, it’s in line with Barrett, Donovan, hippie-era Bolan, and numerous maypole dancers from the same period.
This isn’t to imply that Warner occupies an equal plateau as the august figures mentioned above. Conversely, this observation shouldn’t leave the impression of a considerable artistic deficit; “Lightning over the Meadow” is very likeably Donovan-esque, the guitar and supple bass of high quality as the flute passages lightly lilt but without completely marinating in whimsy.
“A Boogie” is a soiree of overdubbing, the tougher acoustic strumming joined by moments of electric flash and well-mannered bluesy currents. The track is perhaps a tad too long; if so, that’s no major misstep and in fact adds to the private press ambiance. From there, “Rainfall” injects copious synth into a scenario of ‘70s AOR piano; Warner seems poised to delve into the singer-songwriter zone but kinda refreshingly eschews lyrics here.
This tactic continues on “Charlton”’s brisk dip into neo-hokum, its strings insinuating the sound of a harp and differing significantly from “Well Go On,” a full-blown keyboard ballad with synth and flute dressing, its contents hinting that Warner had been keeping up with the activities of McCartney and Rundgren. A flute coda redolent of Chicago inspires a bit of nervousness but passes so quickly it’s hard to raise more than a quibble.
The fingerpicked prelude to “Poems in Your Eyes” is surely more to the liking of this writer; it leads into a bountiful helping of Tyrannosaurus Rex-style mystical-tinged folk strum (or possibly a substantially less unconventional Kevin Ayers), though Warner presents a tangibly more streamlined package. That this LP’s conception coincided with the global punk spasm might momentarily pose a head-scratcher, but in reality underlines one of the positives in the private press universe.
“Fireflies” sets the controls for the heart of the weird (or wyrd, if you will) side of the Brit-folk phenomenon (a smidge of Ayers remains), and roughly a decade after the genre hit its peak. Naturally there are differences, particularly here in the use of synthesizer, its timbre dated but far from detrimental as it’s mostly employed for coloration and not as a lead instrument.
And there are entries not easily falling into Warner’s overall direction; “Momento” (sic) is a fully-functioning solo piano piece emphasizing Warner’s instrumental capabilities but without straining for the result, the compositional intention plainly melodic. The same can be said for “Untitled,” though as a fingerpicking showcase (with a hint of psych underneath) dexterity is front and center.
Acumen is in no shortage during the concise “Crisp Morning,” a piano instrumental seemingly intending to resuscitate the mystique of the barrelhouse for an early ‘70s boho (or at least sophisto) audience. It unquestionably plays a role in Warner’s “madcap” descriptor and as it borders on the zany is likely responsible in part for a comparison to the Bonzo Dog Band.
With its amiable synth doodles, temperate acoustic, unabashedly gentle vocals, and obvious intent as a love ode, it’s essentially impossible to not absorb the mellow intent of closer “Cement River.” But it’s simultaneously just as difficult to not bask in how it all gets infused with glistening cascades of canned strings.
Steve Warner falls a shade or two shy of greatness, but as a document of one highly talented guy’s successful attempts to cut a record, it makes up for much along the way. Because it’s abundantly clear it’s the record he wanted to make, and in the end those records really aren’t all that common.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
B+
