Xtc

It's a theory of epiphanies (beat, psych, prog, new wave, punk) that leads Andy Partridge (guitar and vocals), Colin Moulding (bass and vocals), Terry Chambers (drums) and Barry Andrews (keyboards) to form XTC. It's 1976, and we're in Swindon, England: two years later come the restless "White Music" and the fidgety "GO2". The mechanism, however, doesn't seem to click, and Andrews leaves. He'll be replaced by the versatile guitarist Dave Gregory: it's the turning point, the sound finally clicks into place. Not long after comes the schizophrenic and astonishing "Drums And Wires" (1979). Afterwards they make stunning records like "The Black Sea" (1980) or "English Settlement" (1982) and reap only crumbs of glory.

Their reputation as wonderful, talented losers begins to take hold. Then, just as things start turning for the better, Partridge's stage fright makes touring and promotion impossible. And so we arrive at 1986, when — having lost Chambers' drums along the way (a spot that will never be permanently filled again) — they decide to entrust themselves to "wizard" producer Todd Rundgren for the making of "Skylarking". A wise decision? Not at all. A tragedy. A disaster. Going by Partridge's acid comments, behind every track lurks a compromise, in every sound the ghost of the original intuition, and the tracklist itself apparently had to go through such clashes and disagreements that it came out battered and mutilated. And you can well believe it, just as you can believe that in rock, too, miracles sometimes happen: every time I put this record in the player, in fact, there's not even a shadow of all that turmoil — quite the opposite! — the mechanism feels like magic, the spell repeats itself smooth and gentle, the pop architecture fizzes, supple and perfect.

"Summers Cauldron", for instance, seems to have been conceived, made and placed at the top of the tracklist to fulfil precise atmospheric functions: the impalpable chirping at the start, immersed in that all-embracing electronic cream, calls for a dense, slowed-down atmosphere, even amid the prodding of the crystalline guitar and the caresses of that wonderfully Beach Boys-like chorus... The transition into "Grass" happens seamlessly, and it's like diving into a meadow of soft percussion, in the tender shade of blossoming strings (caressed by an oriental breeze), in a sensual, enveloping celebration of colours, accompanied by all the scents, moods and hormones of the occasion. Slightly more aggressive is the stance of "The Meeting Place", which introduces a strange bestiary of side effects, but we're still in a middle ground between the most playful McCartney and the most melancholy Brian Wilson (or vice versa), driven by a hushed alternation of piano and synthesizer that crowns Dave Gregory the grand master of ceremonies.

The fizzy pop of "That's Really Super, Supergirl" would risk going unnoticed if it weren't for the fact that — wouldn't you know it — not a single piece or fragment is out of place: guitars and keyboards glide over your thoughts like flashes of silver or reflections of sunlight, Mr. Partridge's vocal turns are heartfelt flourishes, while an itch of keyboards blossoms amid sharp strums and lively percussion. "Ballet For A Rainy Day", on the other hand, is a hybrid fruit of many flavours, with bass and piano front and centre, its swing dominance open to the most poignant melodic excursions and blessed with an extraordinary bridge (the kind you could build an entire song around). And it's precisely to the "extreme" anomaly of elevated pop songwriting, with heart and mind turned toward Yesterday, that the feverish warmth of "1000 Umbrellas" looks — an insane R&B for strings and voice, as scornful in its verses as it is lyrical in the chorus: just listen to how those strings vibrate and weep and snicker and wink to be convinced that this is, in every respect, a masterpiece.

The heart of the record rests on a formidable triptych: "Season Cycle" (moody, humorous and swinging, with backing vocals that would send the best Crosby Stills Nash & Young into raptures), "Earn Enough For Us" (a thicker, more crackling riffing that somehow anticipates R.E.M.'s turn shortly to come) and the lysergic explosion of "Big Day" (if not for the silvery fluttering of the six strings, or the hazy tread of the melodic line, I'd play it again and again until I melted into the most intriguing sweetness).

Next comes the returning new wave of "Another Satellite", which redraws the unsettling trajectories of Wire and Joy Division through a lens of shifting, joyful visionariness (that dripping vibraphone, that lazy bass, the lush rippling of the synth...). And then there's "Mermaid Smiled", a stubborn, multicoloured delirium, a spirited tribal-jazz graft onto a vibrant pop stem, an inexhaustible whetting of genius and measure, brass (fake), vibraphone (fake?), the bass (seriously badass) and drumming played with pinpoint precision (haven't mentioned it yet, it's Prairie Prince) all wrapped around the prodigious flexibility of the vocals.

We stay in the vicinity of a certain kind of jazz (the restless, polished, smoky sort dear to Joe Jackson) with the following "The Man Who Sailed Around His Soul" (woodwinds to the fore, sneaky percussion, literary piano, stellar guitar), while "Dying" is a lopsided ballad that recites its restless bitterness without giving up the signs and timbres of magic (the sinewy stumbling of the rhythm section — like a jammed mechanism — and the hazy layering of Moulding's vocals).

The record closes with the enchanted waltz of "Sacrificial Bonfire", still honey for unsatisfied eardrums, the tender spiral of the strings, that voice surrendered to melancholy, a warm vibration of taut drumheads, the nostalgic glow of the strings over the invisible traces of a bare heart: ours, at last.

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14/11/2006