Jimi Goodwin is not a man blessed with the most angelic of voices. Thom Yorke need not lose any sleep, but within his wounded bear growl is a true ugly beauty. If “Lost Souls” could have soundtracked Tom Courtenay’s strolls past dark satanic mills, “Some Cities” is a far grimier record, in which you can almost hear the northern drizzle on cobbled back streets. Ironic then that this, the third Doves album was written not amidst the urban sprawl, but upon the shores of Loch Ness.
Whilst there is no huge evolutionary leap in the acid burn-out sound that characterised the first two Doves albums, the bass lines have certainly got a little bit more slinky, if still distinctly melancholy. First single “Black and White Town” is pretty much Martha & The Vandellas on mogadon. Should help soothe after the strangely transatlantic drawl that Jimi breaks into mid-song.
There is something immensely comforting in sad music that makes you happy about being sad and Doves are Ovaltine for the soul. As a band, they seem somewhat peerless. They’re not poster-boy handsome, they don’t date supermodels and nobody really knows too much about them as people. A behind-the-scenes documentary showed them hoovering… and hoovering carpets rather than cocaine off the thighs of Filipino ladyboys. But it’s always the quiet ones you have to look out for.
In many ways, this is a trio that seem to fit more comfortably into the sphere of great Americana bands. Each Doves album is as distinctly idiosyncratic as The Flaming Lips albums are. Each record has been as richly textured and woozy as the next. It’s only after numerous repeated listenings (preferably on a 3AM neighbourhood stroll) do the finer textures sizzle and crackle in the eardrums.
Whilst “Some Cities” has less radio-friendly singles than “The Last Broadcast”, it is perhaps a more cohesive piece of work, with “Ambition” a particularly apt title for the record’s elegiac conclusion. Recorded in a deserted Benedictine Monastery, it is a hauntingly beautiful piece of music. You can almost hear the light cascading through the stain glass windows. Truly touching stuff.
