Tim Bowness – Abandoned Dancehall Dreams (ALBUM REVIEW)

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bownessalbumOver the course of No-Man’s six studio recordings, singer/songwriter Tim Bowness wrote some of the most poignant lyrics in the realm of modern music. With multi-instrumentalist and progressive rock legend Steven Wilson backing his minimalist, abstract words, Bowness spun tales of suburban dystopia (1996’s Wild Opera), lush romanticism (1994’s Flowermouth), and heartbreak (2003’s Together We’re Stranger, No-Man’s masterpiece). No-Man’s existence has seen long periods of time without any releases, due in large part to Wilson’s growing prominence with other groups—notably the progressive rock juggernaut Porcupine Tree—but the duo is a rarity in contemporary music in that each period of waiting for a new release has been entirely worth it. With each LP Bowness and Wilson reinvented themselves, moving from an off-kilter take on dance-pop in the early ‘90’s all the way to chamber jazz in the early ‘00’s.

During No-Man’s existence, Bowness participated in numerous other projects, including a collaboration with Porcupine Tree keyboardist Richard Barbieri in Flame (1994), an album with Peter Chilvers (2002’s California, Norfolk), and a project called Memories of Machines, which he formed with Nosound’s Giancarlo Erra. In 2004 he also released a solo album, the nocturnal My Hotel Year, put out by the same label responsible for No-Man’s early work, One Little Indian. The moody synths and basslines on that record, particularly on tunes like “I Once Loved You”, was a clear departure from the emotionally piercing ambience of Together We’re Stranger, released the year prior. Now, ten years later, Bowness is going beyond the bounds of anything he’s done both as a solo artist and as a member of No-Man with Abandoned Dancehall Dreams, his first solo LP since My Hotel Year. Unsurprisingly, it’s a daring and experimental singer/songwriter release; however, that’s not to say there are no surprises here. In fact, the album finds Bowness at his most experimental yet.

Opener “The Warm-Up Man Forever” comes right out the gates with an intense drum pattern that is later enhanced by an energetic cello figure. “Smiler at 50” starts off as a slow, string-accented lounge ballad, but concludes with an explosive, mellotron-heavy finale. The tender “Waterfoot”, which juxtaposes idyllic country scenery with industrial factory life, features a delightful ascending/descending fingerpicked rhythm on acoustic guitar. The angsty closer to the record, “Beaten by Love”—written in No-Man’s early days—finds shrieking guitar notes punctuating Bowness’ aggressive and spare lyrics. The musical diversity of Abandoned Dancehall Dreams is a marvel, but it’s not there for the sake of being there, and nor is it disorganized. Bowness’ distinctive vocals and lyrics bring together the numerous tangents the music takes.

It’s when the album settles into the mid-tempo range (“Dancing for You”) that it’s at its least interesting. Following “Smiler at 50” the music falls into a relaxed pace, beginning with the plaintive melancholy of “Songs of Distant Summers”, which is archetypal Bowness on all fronts. However, despite an excellent post-chorus chord progression in “Waterfoot”, the midsection of the record feels like a lull, due in large part to the kinetic opener and the brooding closing track.

Lyrically, Bowness remains as compelling and as impenetrable as ever. Speaking to Anil Prasad, he said of Abandoned Dancehall Dreams’s numerous themes: “If there’s a central metaphor on the album, I think it’s about how people deal with change. Life brings changes constantly—new technology, aging, death, fresh opportunities and so on—and we all deal with those things differently. Some people retreat from change, some people embrace it. Others ignore it and it slowly dawns on them.” Certain songs do have a narrative feel that gives some context for the narrative(s) of change: “Smiler at 50” and “Smiler at 52”, both musically and lyrically, form a distinct interlocking story. The former, one of the record’s two nearly ten-minute epics, begins as a piano-driven reflection on the life of a woman whose best days are behind her. She is described as “a girl that dads could laugh with/a face just ripe for first kiss”, bearing “a look she thought was Paris.” But, ultimately, whatever gleams of a better life may have shone in her early years, at 50, all Bowness can ask is, “How did it come to this?” Her realization is that “there is no future—there is only loss.” The song then concludes with the aforementioned mellotron coda, a startling finale that is reminiscent of some of Steven Wilson’s solo work (Grace for Drowning in particular).

The latter, “Smiler at 52”, is a calmer affair, an understated piece whose main musical motif is a lullaby-like figure on keyboard. Whereas the grandiose coda to “Smiler at 50” suggests a moment of final defeat, of a woman coming to terms with the futility of her own life, the calmer pace of “Smiler at 52” paints the picture of someone who has gotten used to the tragedy that is loss. A small and perhaps hollow victory, yes, but one that rounds out the Smiler narrative in a thought-provoking fashion. Smiler is but one figure amongst the many in Abandoned Dancehall Dreams, but she is undoubtedly the standout figure of Bowness’ lyrical observations on this LP.

In describing the creation of the album, Bowness told Prasad, “In some respects, Abandoned Dancehall Dreams is my idea of what a No-Man album could or should be.” Bowness and Wilson are a special pairing; despite the peerless innovation that defines No-Man’s six studio outings, to this critic’s ears there’s definitely room for expansion. However, with Abandoned Dancehall Dreams, Bowness demonstrates that while No-Man may be on the backburner for now, he remains a one-of-a-kind musician, one who challenges himself no matter who he performs with. Bowness is anything but a “Warm-Up Man Forever.”

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