Loops, dirty R&B, funk licks and beat poetry. A.H. CAYLEY finds a hint of modern noir in Dave Graney’s 'Knock Yourself Out'.

First impressions may not mean everything, but they do account for something. A hint of what is to come; an idea beginning to form. An instinctive judgement, one that may or may not later be proven true. It is rarely surprising when they are found to be false, but incredibly satisfying when correct. On first impressions, this is a great record. Smart, witty – very sexy. It is with great satisfaction that I can declare this first impression to be correct. Graney has done it again, in a way and a style he never has before – and this time, solely billed.

He’s moved on since his last album, the Lurid Yellow Mist’s fantastic We Wuz Curious. If that record was set in a garish, 24-hour, ’60s-themed cocktail bar, this one is set in the doorway behind some dark, hip speakeasy no-one else knows about. Modern noir. It’s about the voice and the beat. There are loops, dirty R&B rhythms, funk licks and the contemporary beat poetry of Graney’s lyrical stylings.

From the first track, the titular ‘Knock Yourself Out’, the mood is set. The lyrics span a career of song titles. No, the lyrics are a career of song titles. His own. Is this egotism or cheek? Probably a bit of both, but in a good way. A characteristic way, even. Originally written as a cameo for a track by Melbourne hip-hop musician Plutonic, it was rejected for being too long. No wonder – it’s 5.08 long, and backed here by Clare Moore’s musical input in a “groove she brewed up” (as she did for almost every song).

“Some of Graney’s appeal lies in his possession of a strange vocal talent that always makes it seem as though he is singing directly to you.”

Some of Graney’s appeal lies in his possession of a strange vocal talent that always makes it seem as though he is singing directly to you, and not some generic audience of which you happen to be a part. The refrain on ‘Bodysnatcher Blues’, for instance, sounds as though it’s being whispered heavily into you ear – at least it did in mine. Perhaps that’s just wishful thinking convincing the senses of some sort of artist-audience solidarity. Graney has that effect on many. To paraphrase a fellow critic, no-one says “yeah” quite like him.

‘Dylan the Indie Fake’ is one of the best swipes I’ve ever heard, taking a vocodered swing at the mythology and deification of a man proclaimed to be a prophet but wanting none of it: “Furball music/Suckin’ the lint from your sleeves/He’s beside himself/He never asked to be here/Dylan, the indie fake.” ‘Sellout’ sees a dope, tripped-up beat beneath alternating funk bass and fuzzy guitar parts, under such great lines as, “It used to be a pejorative term of abuse/Once upon a time, people gave a shit/(Sellout!) while you can.” You can almost see the thinly-moustached sneer.

The album wraps up with ‘2068 Babe’, a track almost eight minutes long, placing the tumultuous ’68 of last century to the noisy, lo-fi tune of this one, looking to the future from the past, as Graney often does: “Molotov cocktails/Shaken and thrown/The Stooges rehearsing in an Ann Arbor basement, stoned.” By the end, the fuzz and feedback just cuts out with a reflective chuckle. We’re left without a conclusion. Fuck it – make your own.

Knock Yourself Out certainly leaves an impression. It’s an intelligent, audio pleasure. It’s so cool it hurts and its effects can be felt outside of the stereo. Rarely has an album so made me want to fuck. Get into it – knock yerself out.

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Knock Yourself Out is out now through Cockaigne/Fuse.