It’s like walking on clouds in those coy hotel-room
slippers we all steal. Like floating about mid-air inside an airplane[1],
when your ears aren’t exactly blocked, but they’re also not functioning at 100%
because of that persistent hum. Where making out what’s being said six rows ahead
is almost easier than understanding your neighbour’s words. “Excuse me, can you
get the fudge up so I can go to the bathroom?” (I only ever take the aisle
seat, so it’s a problem window-sitters probably won’t get.)
For the first three-and-a-bit minutes, nothing really happens. I mean, it’s all pleasantries and sunshine in the sort-of-profound, sort-of-meaningless way only Mogwai can manage. But as a standalone movement, without context or an inkling of what’s to come later, it doesn’t much make sense. You worry this might be Mogwai getting a little too ponderous, a little too laborious, while developing a very specific, very narrow mood.
Hells to the no.
‘Don’t Believe The Fife’ is a crackling reminder of
the very reasons I first fell in love with Mogwai: The compassionate, wounded passages
that saunter along aimlessly, taking their time to craft a mood-canvas onto
which I can reflect my immediate state of wellbeing (or otherwise). The
impressionistic guitar lines crawling around like intricate pencil-sketches.
And then the inversion: The explosion, the bastardry, the mania, the carefully
concealed other end, the ugly insides we all do our best to hide away with make-up,
haircuts, and forced smiles.
Over the years, the band seems to have toned down its
radical soft-loud theatrics, instead going for steadier, more circumspect arrangements.
It’s not really a criticism — they’ve expanded into different worlds in their
20 years of hyper-prolific existence,
reaching a special kind of peak (for me) with Les Revenants. Yet ‘Fife’ recalls that early deranged quality which
hammers away at your kidneys with no prior warning.
It trudges along, and then, out of nowhere, it bursts
like a thunderstorm. The coolest bit? Sure, the element of surprise goes away after
the first time (or even before that, if you’re reading this without having
heard the song). But the outburst remains elusive; it’s unpredictable after
repeat listens, even when you’re waiting for it.
That’s partly because of how firmly the first section
gets established. It’s partly because there’s a bit of a false alarm when the
drums kick in at first, because you feel like you sort of ‘know’ this Mogwai;
you ‘know’ where they’re heading with this. It’s also because of a really cool
songwriting trick, where they pile on the additions with little regard for
form. The brain is used to listening to things at least twice, or in multiple
of four, before something new happens. Here, though, the tremolo'ed/delayed
guitar bit enters, playing just once. Then the drums kick in, playing just
once.
No need to overstate the point, but that’s when the
eruption happens, with like the fattest guitar sound I’ve heard in years. It’s
hundreds of guitars being smashed in anger. Welcome back, Mogwai.
[1]
This might not be a universal emotion, since I’ve been connecting Mogwai with
airplanes for a while now, ever since one defining experience.
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