Wherever there's been action in the past few years, you can just spot Howie B on the edge of it. Often, he's acted as a tour guide for rock's old guard U2, The Band's Robbie Robertson, Ry Cooder when they develop an interest in dance culture. At other times, he's moved in the shadows of operations by Bjork and Soul II Soul, and run the respected Pussyfoot imprint.
Rarely, though, has it been clear exactly what he does. Howie B's own albums have been almost invariably disappointing: reasonable but unexceptional investigations of dance fashions, or ambience, that leave you wondering how he's negotiated such a position of influence. 'Folk', his first album since 1998, initially promises more. The faintly spooked mummers on the cover (and in the unavoidable poster campaign) and the title suggest an allegiance with young guns like Four Tet and Manitoba, a fusing of acoustic traditions with modern beats. 'Making Love On Your Side', the first track, hints at that, too, with a flourish of flamenco guitar and some gypsy wailing over phased atmospherics.
After that, sadly, 'Folk' rapidly loses its way. Howie B ropes in a load of what he terms "storytellers", but we can dismiss as slightly confused guest vocalists. These include a very weary-sounding Robbie Robertson, the reggae-tinged Sweetie and, most prominently, Karmen Wijnberg. The latter appears on the album's clear lowpoint, 'Duet', where her decent enough song is ruined by Gavin Friday (ex-Virgin Prune, man about Dublin and largely unemployable mate of Bono) murdering David Essex's 'Rock On' over the top. How they must've laughed.
But not us. Eventually, 'Folk' becomes a little less gimmicky, toying with disturbed ambience that's occasionally pleasant and occasionally about as cutting edge as The Orb. Or, when Wijnberg starts up again, Clannad. And still, the overall effect is one of bewilderment: how did Howie B get to this exalted place, and why is he still here? His party tricks, we can only conclude, must be amazing.
