Mainstream music stagnated years ago, with algae now clouding the once-pristine pools and ponds that were the realms of pop and rock. It’s why I spend so much time on this blog spotlighting independent artists and others who record for small labels. The bulk of them are folk and country-tinged singer-songwriters, of course, but here’s the thing: There is also good and great rock music being made that hits home even for those of us in the middle-aged and older demographic sets. Richard Haswell’s expansive collection, 45 x 45 (The Lost 7” Singles), is proof of that.
The Edinburgh-based Haswell, for those unfamiliar with him, is a prolific indie artist, having released in excess of 30 albums and EPs through the decades, including as Rhubarb, G for Gnome, White Noise and Tokamaks. I discovered him in early 2021 by way of the excellent With the Changing Light album, which went on to be my one of my favorites of the year. I still listen to it—which, given the way I gallop through new releases, says much.
In the best of worlds, 45 x 45 (The Lost 7” Singles) could be picked up at record stores in a cool Peter Blake-designed flip-top box housing 23 singles and copious liner notes about each song. Indie life being what it is, however, it can only be had (for an inexpensive 10 pounds, no less) via Bandcamp or, for free, through the various streaming services. In total, the collection features 45 songs and runs three and a half hours. As a result, I’ll skip song-by-song analysis, as that would likely lead to a book-length soliloquy, and settle for large brushstrokes and a few examples.
First and foremost: Haswell’s sound mixes elements of folk, rock and electronica, with the resulting dreamscapes conjuring both the underground and mainstream rock of the 1980s. While we were out and about this morning, Diane observed that the songs reminded her of the early days of MTV, when the cable channel featured a slew of little-known new wave and post-punk bands. Influences occasionally bubble up from deep in the grooves throughout the expansive set, in other words, but never cause the (virtual) stylus to skip. In point of fact, the consistency that cuts across the tracks—which date from 1999 to 2021—is remarkable. At worst, some tracks are solid. At best, they’re sublime treatises on matters of the heart and soul. “Arizona Maybe,” a track from his 2017 album Lamp Black, is a good example. The chill of winter morphs into a metaphor for a lover growing distant.
Another highlight is “Red Sky,” a dramatic seven-minute song from his 2001 Rhubarb project, Odd Enough to Be Interesting. To my ears, it echoes long-ago concoctions from Dire Straits, Dream Syndicate and Pink Floyd, among others, though some might swap out some or all of those acts in favor of Simple Minds, U2 and Joy Division.
Those tracks also showcase the propulsive beats and percolating guitars that drive much of Haswell’s music. His vocals are important, too. They range from grainy to growls, and accent the angst, anger and heartfelt moments that inform his songs. It should be noted, I suppose, that he wrote everything himself and also plays the bulk of the instruments.
For all the good, there is some bad: Several of the pre-2004 tracks, which were recorded on a four-track TASCAM tape recorder, suffer from subpar sound. I’m talking choppy and muffled moments, plus instances of near breakups—somewhat similar to the audience recordings of concerts that were traded among fans back in the day. “Cuckoo,” another Rhubarb track, is a good example. Yet, much like most of those audience tapes of yore, over time and repeated listens the faults become a non-factor. (Post-2004, Haswell recorded via computers and Macs, so the sound is pristine.)
When I press play on the set, I’m instantly transported to the days and nights of the mid-1980s. Life for me, as I’m sure it was for other young adults of that era, consisted of college, part-time work, and few if any serious concerns. Yet, his lyrics pull me out of that abyss of nostalgia by overlaying the laments of an aging soul. It’s a bit like walking a tightrope, in sense, and Haswell does it well. He never teeters.
The Old Grey Cat 