The Goo 1
Albums Teeth of Time - Joshua Burnside - Christia
n Wethered For all his hits on Spotify and soldout shows at Ulster Hall, Joshua Burnside’s music evades categorization – somewhere between tradfolk, and an endearingly obsessive, highly distinctive, unearthing of ‘found’ sounds. Like Into the Depths of Hell, Teeth of Time is another impressive feat of post-production. We never quite know where we are, or where we’re heading. His unique sound rummages through lost archives, chance audio files, scraps of history, anything worth holding onto. It all feels quite post-apocalyptic. Newsreels blend with footsteps, the gathering or juxtaposing of lost fragments. You can almost picture him late at night scrolling for the right sample, the one that will uncover the secret to everything. And, ever the musical ethnologist, he’s a kind of postmodern historian – a hoarder of lost fragments. As part of the ‘Off the Shelf’ interview series with KLOF Magazine last year, he listed a number of unusual objects from his shelf: from baskets of Sea Potatoes to an old book on Belfast folk songs. There’s something almost atavistic about the whole thing. Like a 16 late-John Cage, his secret world constitutes an almost kabbalist obsession, to which he retreats every now and again. He’s not dissimilar to John Francis Flynn, whose atmospheric sound is a part of an ongoing folk project that unearths tradition. But this is earthier, slightly arcane: the folk equivalent of Burial or William Basinski. There are two Joshua Burnsides: one who concocts uncanny sounds in a vault in Belfast, and another who crops up at places such as Dublin’s Teacher’s Club for the An Góilín Singers’ Club for some trad. He’s a man with many hats. The gig in Whelan’s this April will include a band in tow. His songs change according to whichever mood he’s in. ‘Under the Concrete’ sounds slightly west-African and polyrhythmic; ‘Whiskey Whiskey’. is Sufjan Stevens-esque; ‘Nothing For Ye’ could have been written a hundred years ago. Teeth of Time finds a ruminative songwriter in the in-between-ness of everything. The album is a pause, a ‘teething’ period in his own life – somewhere at the brink of middle-age, waiting in traffic, running errands, dreaming of life on the road. ‘The Good Life’ is a gem that broods under the trappings of a settled life: ‘Living the good life / the house, the kid, and the good wife. / Gonna try not drink tonight / the good life makes me... thirsty.’ The low, restless vocal is pure Bill Callahan or Sam Amidon, with a touch of Dylan. But then there are more pressing concerns, such as impending environmental collapse, or the culture-less void left behind by a decade of egotistic Tory-rule. ‘Sycamore Queen’ is a dark, Lankum-esque number that sounds almost like a tree being dug up: a cautionary ode on apolitical selfishness. The dark times abound. Back he dives into that static that defines so much of his recorded work; and out he comes with ‘Climb The Tower’ – a work of majesty that comes out of nowhere, straight from the heart. It’s hard not to listen to this song on a loop – particularly at the end, where he pledges himself to someone forever: ‘if you’re comin’ down / I’ll be around.’ It’s worth saying that Burnside’s appeal is often his offhand, almost bashful, style of singing. And so, when he finally takes flight, it’s always extra special, as we glimpse something fleeting – like a bird who twitches, then flies away. Luke Kelly does something similar in Raglan Road – something in the voice that soars, unexpectedly. ‘Marching Round the Ladies’ sounds like a Dubliners cover – with a wry, modern twist. The song was partly borrowed from the book Belfast City of Song’ (ed. by Maurice Leyden) – testament to his abiding love for Irish folk. The last line is full of angst, a middle finger to the Tories: ‘It doesn’t matter where you’re from; the Tories fuck us all’. The album meanders restlessly between states, a comment on the things we never quite grasp – the passing of time, fake news, newsreels, violins, walks by the sea, fatherhood, melodeons. And, just as John Cage never found the sound (or silence) he was searching for, Burnside settles for the chaotic, often beautiful, static – the bits we dredge along the way. And for all the production, it’s the voice that counts – one that hovers and leaves us slightly speechless.