Band of Holy Joy

Breath-taking state-of-the-nation exposition by one of the most enigmatic bands of the 80s.

Unflinching in its exploration of areas of British life we’d sometimes rather not dwell upon, the 19th(!) album by Band ofHoly Joy finds London-exiled Geordie Johny Brown and his cadre scaling new heights. What makes ‘Land of Holy Joy’ (to give it its abridged title) so vital, endearing and, yes, important, is its exquisite tenderness.

The album has a flow and sense of purpose that brings to mind Love’s ‘Forever Changes’, while its anima and animus nature- brutal tales from the streets rendered with profound humanity- recalls the crowning glory of Lou Reed’s solo career, 1978’s ‘Street Hassle’.

At the time of writing, an extraordinary Grand Guignol scene is being played out in the UK media, as a potential future Prime Minister is being pilloried for the crime of advocating a kinder, gentler world, a proposition so offensive and destructive, we are told, that the full might of the media and political establishment will be deployed to stop it. Feudal society has not been consigned to the past, it would appear. It is this tension between fragile hope and bludgeoning oppression which forms the battleground on which ‘Land of Holy Joy’ plays out.

Some reviewers have drawn comparisons with currently hip duo Sleaford Mods, but there are no polemics here, no lazy finger-pointing or pat answers. Like Reed and his slyly subversive antecedent, Chuck Berry, Brown seeks insight through clear-eyed depiction, the underlying truth emerging unforced.

Brown’s vocal style exists within its own frame of reference. Always an idiosyncratic stylist, he flits between spoken sections and a wilful croon, his warm North-East brogue unimpaired by decades of London living. Brown carves out his own, natural style that is well suited to the quirky, questing nature of his group.

Musically, the earthy punk-funk of ESG is apparent in a wonderfully soulful rhythm section, while the guitars recall Johnny Marr in his pomp. This has drawn comparisons with The Smiths, but ‘Land of Holy Joy’ is more adventurous musically than anything the Mancunian janglers recorded, while Brown’s humane, intelligent lyrics are far removed from the arrested adolescence petulance of Morrissey.

Lead single ‘Isn’t That Just the Life’ features some beautiful lines, with Brown singing from a first person female perspective: “The tattoo on my pelvic bone is fading, fifteen years displayed on the palest skin. A fragile stem topped by a simple blue flower. It has been with me through darkest of darkening hours.” There’s even a hint of Pablo Neruda in the touching line, “I’ll trade all of my joy for some of your sorrows.”

In one of the key themes of the album, Brown explores what it means to be a man and what it means to be a woman in the alienating world we now find ourselves in, delving particularly deep into the darker side of masculinity. ‘Men Who Display a Different Kind of Pain’ could easily be a song title from Jackie Leven’s ‘Fairy Tales for Hard Men’ and indeed Brown is in similar territory here. “Something inside of me works best when it is fuelled by hatred”, he sings, over an irresistible musical back-drop that melds Southern and Northern Soul, the guitars conjuring flashes of Steve Cropper and Wilko Johnson.

‘Violent Drunken Strangers’ is the centre-piece track, a journey into the heart of darkness as Brown documents the human consequences of sex trafficking in unflinching detail: “First you have your name battered out of you, forced out on the game, beaten black and blue”. It’s a gut-wrenchingly powerful song that addresses one aspect of the monstrous misogyny of the current age. There is little hope beyond broken wistfulness in the concluding lines: “Oh for a smile from someone I know; oh tonight if I could just go out dancing.”

‘Discredited Art Form’ follows, Brown self-analysing as he details the process by which he embarked on such a potentially prurient subject: “The work came from need, but it was a need that was distorted by total subjectivity” he surmises, before spinning his peek-behind-the-curtain dissection into a self-mocking denouement in an A&E ward.

Perhaps Brown is continuing to playfully project his own fears in the final track, ‘I’m Crass Harry’, a rum tale of an ageing punk who endures a series of misfortunes before ending up in a “residential support home”. As the album approaches its conclusion, the song’s protagonist ponders the limitations brought about by the ageing process: “the mind still flies but the flesh isn’t able” he muses, but Harry hasn’t thrown in the towel yet. “I’m living proof of those who live in hope, whose spirit just won’t get broke”, he declares, as the song accelerates into a punky-reggae finale.

A sense of liberation surges forth as Brown evokes Iggy in his finest hour: “Saturday night, I feel alright, I feel alright, I feel alright…” Continuing a thread from earlier songs, the simple joy and abandon of dancing and cutting loose on the weekend is a salvation of sorts here.

Some people like to tell you that no-one is making classic albums anymore. There are even some evil mothers who’ll tell you that life is just dirt. Johny Brown and his comrades know differently; here’s the evidence.

Buy Land of Holy Joy here.
The Band of Holy Joy are on Facebook and at www.bandofholyjoy.co.uk.