As someone who complains vociferously about the various bluster and guff that often accompanies the submission of music from PR agencies, I find myself in a quandary. “It’s best if we know nothing about the band at all,” I jabber, “the music should say everything.”
So, having just received an email from the PR pushing Tunabunny, I’m suddenly in dire need of information. Real information, that is – this email is full of fibs of the most corrosive kind; “Inspired by such cult artists as The Beatles and Norah Jones,” it blabs, and, wired with the heady throb brought on by the power of deceit, “M.I.A. is already questioning their authenticity.”
This kind of blatant smokescreen has, bizarrely, had the desired effect. I need to know more. Sad isn’t it? Still, when presented with bottom-of-the-well dirt-rock that echoes with a tinnitus rattle and squeals with the intensity of a recently-pealed bell, I suppose a little more info is an expected and constituent part of the transaction.
Maybe Flowers On The Stage, howling through a dark misamic fug, is a big fib in itself. Maybe Tunabunny actually make Christian MOR-Rock for mid-western radio stations. Maybe they don’t know themselves. Thus, under a cloud of suspicion, all judgements must be made on the music itself, yeah?
Shucks. Getting what you want isn’t always a good thing. Flowers On The Stage, though, is definitely a good thing – wailing quasi-coherently has never sounded so persuasive and adroit. There is definitely a song in there – it’s just a question of carefully picking it apart from the feedback. But don’t listen too hard – the truth is never as fulfilling as the legend.
Challenging, troubling, liberating. Nice.