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Ed Harcourt, Here Be Monsters (Virgin) 9+

On 23 year-old Ed Harcourt's full-length debut, he outperforms Rufus Wainright, and Jeff Buckley, and uncorks more great songs than Elliott Smith's entire career. Before they've even heard of him, the competition is eating his dust. What sets Harcourt apart is his apparent knack for flawless arrangements worthy of Randy Newman/Van Dyke Parks. No doubt his good taste in choosing control-room assistance from Flaming Lips/Mercury Rev producer Dave Fridmann and Tim Holmes of Death In Vegas didn't hurt. In the face of the new wave of depressingly anemic and conservative troubadours like David Gray, Harcourt breathes life into the maligned singer-songwriter genre with his eccentric melodic style that cannot be pinned down with any specific influence, other than a slight hint of early 70s Bowie. Within just the first three songs, Harcourt covers as much emotional terrain as Van Morrison did between his despairing Astral Weeks and ecstatic Moondance. The opener, "Something In My Eye" begins modestly as a strummed acoustic number, but gradually builds into an inspiring orchestral yearning. "God Protect Your Soul," starts with an ominous growl that bears resemblance to Mark Lanegan. The music is barbed by thorns of slashing guitars and pounding drums. The infectuously poppy "She Fell Into My Arms" is shockingly sunny after the previous song's anger. Summer skips to winter in the funereal "Those Crimson Tears," accented by muted horns like perfect snowflakes. The album peaks with the epic "Beneath The Heart of Darkness" that betrays Fridmann's knob-twiddling. Who else could transform an off-kilter beat inspired by a rattling central heating boiler in Harcourt's house into a masterful opus of claustrophobia that would turn Thom Yorke green with envy? Here Be Monsters suffers from not a single weak song. This is a stunning work of enduring beauty by someone who's too young to remember the early 80s, yet seems to have absorbed more musical wisdom than any of his contemporaries. More please.

-- A.S. Van Dorston


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The Ideal Copy
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