On this, their second album, MONEY have created a difficult listen on two levels. Firstly, in creating a collection of songs which, if not directly about suicide, often convey a hopeless state of mind and heart. Secondly, owing to the awkward collision of some fine playing with a largely monotonous production and some painfully strained singing from vocalist/guitarist Jamie Lee.
It starts well enough with “I Am the Lord”, fading in on a dreamy drone, an atmosphere embellished by Indian-style strings and dilruba. But this tranquillity is sharply undercut by Lee’s distressed vocal: “The world swims inside of me / And I’m going to drown.” In a sense, the whole album revolves around this feeling of being all but overwhelmed, yet trying to cling on to life.
Closing on an anguished chant of the title, “I’m Not Here” is edged along by some insistent piano and acoustic guitar, but at times still feels like something of a dirge. “You Look Like a Sad Painting on Both Sides of the Sky” has a well-crafted string arrangement (also a feature of several other tracks), but sadly Lee’s penchant for not-quite-there vocal acrobatics lets it down.
This is even more the case on “Night Came”, where swimming, mellow guitar that evokes Robin Guthrie of the Cocteau Twins is compromised by more strangulated straining. Undoubtedly some will find Lee’s voice to be touchingly vulnerable, authentic, etc. But to these ears it sounds, almost as often as he hits notes — at times making some surprisingly successful leaps — he assaults them.
MONEY originate in Manchester, and obliquely invoke that background on “Suicide Song”, with its moving use of a Northern brass band, a sound that breathes out melancholy like a fog. Despite the title, according to Lee the song was born from trying to deter a friend from the ultimate act. It’s certainly more successful than most of the album in creating something cathartic rather than drowning the listener in despair.
“Hopeless World” has some powerful reverbed drums and, with its bright guitar line and some effective backing vocals, is almost pop. Despite its sombre title, it reflects a vision of beauty. Similarly, “I’ll Be the Night” recalls: “When I was a child I made a deal against the sun / That if it died out that I would carry on”, albeit this is a disturbing state of mind for a child to be in in the first place.
“All My Life” is one of the better tracks: Billy Byron’s drums, largely restrained elsewhere, have a real kick to them, and Lee seems inspired by the melodious backing singer to deliver a performance which is tuneful rather than being raw and ragged. The closer, “Cocaine Christmas and an Alcoholic’s New Year”, is a piano-based ballad. Its odd lyrics — wherein Lee compares himself to Marilyn Monroe and Jean Genet, yet still claims to be “as happy as a child” — evoke a befuddled, bedraggled state of mind. Solemn trumpets somehow suggest a Salvation Army band in the snow, but although there are traces of religious sentiment on other songs, the melancholic trumpet at the finale doesn’t promise redemption.
By comparison with another Manchester band’s exploration of despair (Joy Division’s Closer), this album falls short. This is especially so because Ian Curtis’ singing is authoritative and maintains control even though the music and lyrics so powerfully convey its gradual loss. Too often here, Jamie Lee’s vocals are irritatingly obvious in their loss of control, to the detriment of the musicianship. It’s surprising that label boss Simon Raymonde, who played for years with the Cocteaus’ gifted Elizabeth Fraser, didn’t exercise a bit more quality control in this regard. But then again, others will find solace in Lee’s brokenness. And after all, he can certainly sing better than Leonard Cohen.