BILL FAY IN BRIEF

The weary inner-space wanderer recording Time Of the Last Persecution.



Looking marginally more presentable circa Tomorrow, Tomorrow And Tomorrow.

Championed in recent years by artists as disparate as Jim O'Rourke and Marc Almond, Bill Fay's songwriting has been repeatedly compared to the likes of Nick Drake, Scott Walker, Ray Davies, Bob Dylan and Paul McCartney. To varying degrees, all of those comparisons are legitimate. The important factor, though, is that the quality of Fay's best work doesn't fall far short of these giants, despite the fact that his music was originally all but ignored in the late 60's and early 70's. Even until a few years ago, the most you were likely to have heard from him was the occassional appearance of his early singles on some obscure pysch-pop compilation.

The Walker comparisons are most applicable to his eponymous debut album. This 1971 effort featured touching one-man-and-his-guitar intimacy drenched in orchestral melancholy of a distinctly bucolic, English nature. Where Scott's masterful baritone and grand arrangements were rarely less than a match made in heaven, Fay's wobbly, almost conversational delivery doesn't quite gel with the towering, lush backing. Bear with me though, because this uneasy juxtaposition creates an improbable magic of its own. It almost feels like the strings, horns and assorted embellishments have been added afterwards, at times leaving Bill in an emotive struggle to be heard underneath. There's an odd chemistry going on here which is pretty tough to describe in print. Suffice to say that songs like the relatively low-key 'Be Not So Fearful' (made semi-famous by Wilco) and 'Methane River' are deserving of a much wider audience. This record also features my favourite opening line to an album ever - listen below.



Opener from the debut album, 'Garden Song'.


Less than a year later, 'Time Of The Last Persecution' appeared and it wasn't only Fay's appearance which had undergone a transformation (the previously well-dressed fellow having morphed into a shaggy-bearded prophet on the cover). The music had lost its orchestral accompaniment, now sporting are more recognizably singer-songwriter feel with the odd burst of squalling electric guitar. The 'smaller' sound brings out all manner of shadowy figures, Bill's spiritual ruminations creating a bleak yet engrossing atmosphere. The songs are often spectacular as well, especially the heartbreaking, piano-flecked likes of 'I Hear You Calling', 'Tell It Like It Is' and 'Laughing Man'.



'I Hear You Calling' from Time Of the Last Persecution (see correct, unsettling artwork below).





After that burst of prolific creativity (and non-existent sales), Fay vanished until the late 70's/early 80's when he brought together a group of jazz-orientated musicians (offically The Bill Fay Group) to record a few songs he'd been working on. That's really all the project amounted to, the results being left in storage for decades until 2004 when 'Tomorrow, Tomorrow And Tomorrow' appeared. The album itself is bizarrely interrupted at the halfway point by a handful of lo-fi (though frequently lovely) demos - why they weren't saved for the end i'll never know. Of course, these days we have the technology to re-jig the playing order into its correct form, revealing yet another minor classic. The production reveals it to be a bit of a period piece, but the writing more than makes up for any qualms. A reviewer on Amazon compares the album to The Flaming Lips' 'The Soft Bulletin' and Robert Wyatt's 'Rock Bottom'. This seems reasonable on both counts, the former being evident in the melancholy, existential outlook, the latter in the rippling jazz feel and floating keyboards. I'd also add Dennis Wilson's 'Pacific Ocean Blue' to that mix - although lacking that album's occasional tendency towards grizzly, overblown performances, this record does share a similar ragged beauty and stark lyrical honesty. Fay's music more than stands up on its own, though. It may also be his most varied album sonically, moving effortlessly from the ghostly, piano-led majesty of 'Spiritual Mansions' to the complex, almost proggy textures of 'Planet Earth Daytime'. This might take more time to get into than the earlier LPs, but it eventually reveals itself as arguably the finest of the lot.



'Spiritual Mansions'.



The mesmerising album closer 'Isles Of Sleep'.


Finally (other than a forthcoming new album), there's 'From The Bottom Of An Old Grandfather Clock'. This is a compilation of lo-fi home demos and by nature is a bit uneven compared with the cleaner studio work. Having said that, some of Fay's very finest songs appear here, including the turbulent 'Brighton Beach', the fuzzy rocker 'Maxine's Parlour' and the plain-genius pop songcraft of 'Maudy La Lune' to name just three. A few of the songs from his debut are also featured in pleasingly simple remakes, 'We Want You To Stay' even being revamped as a rousing barroom knees-up.



The brief-yet-lovely 'Strangers In The Fields'.



The revamped 'We Want You To Stay'.


So these are all comfortably four-star albums. Such a cold, mechanical assessment often leads to singer-songwriter efforts like these being heard a couple of times, superficially admired and then stored away at the back of your collection. The key difference with Bill Fay though is that the uniquely disarming personality embedded within his music will, for a select group, lead to his records being cherished like few others.