Piano fanfare and an excitable slide guitar crack open John Cale’s 1973 masterpiece Paris 1919. ‘A Child’s Christmas In Wales’ comes across as a surreal nursery rhyme with lyrics like “ten murdered oranges bled on board ship” set to a most sunny sort of music. The atmosphere is active and enormous. Organ overtones overwhelm and run together with the relishable Welsh accent of the singing. Syncopated drum-stuff keeps the beat flush with rhythmic richness. The entire vibe’s not unlike a great gospel song; appropriately so, the words are as mysterious as any divine design. Direct segue via sliding strings and it’s time for Country Cale: ‘Hanky Panky Nohow’ gently drones along with pleasant soft-strummed acoustics and more organ and another dose of lyrical enigma (to be expected throughout the entire album). What are the “cows that agriculture won’t allow?”. I haven’t the know-how. But the singing is sweet and darn declarative enough that you’ll be joining in for the chorus and dreaming of sun-downing cattle-fields. Depart the pasture and enter the ‘Endless Plain Of Fortune’. Ominous piano plows through a soldierly passage on repeat. Symphonic strings sweep and creep and add understated dramatic contour to the music. Without outright trying to be tragic, the melody makes many melancholy movements. The straining major-seventh sound of lines like “look out below! the tides…” calls to my mind a bittersweet grief for something lost and fragmented. Lyrically, the cut-up scenes about “Old Taylor” and “Segovia” and “Gendarmerie” all sound very sad and solemn. Coupled with expressive instrumentation (oh what woe for humanity heard in that bombastic brass!), the words play like puzzle pieces all over the place; but the big picture can never be finished, and that’s what’s so tragic about the tune. After that, ‘Andalucia’ is a graceful ballad about some alluring object, whether a special person or perhaps the place in southern Spain. The song seems to elicit a sense of nostalgia for things you’ve never known. The purity and peace of the piece stems from a reflection on the past; and considering the composer’s arcane lyrical content, this sentimental reflection remains absolutely sugar-free, non-schmaltzy. Indeed, lyrics like “leaving”, “doesn't alter”, and “again” imply this particularly effective past-tense perspective. Musically, the tune doesn’t tread beyond a common three-chord territory. It shines brightly in its sufficient simplicity. Acoustics come out again, ever active. Slide guitars shimmer warmly. Drums-n-bass compliment each other kindly with perfectly-placed tight socket-locked grooves. The melody moves higher and higher on the pre-chorus parts. It’s all delightfully delicate. Sudden drums drop in and welcome ‘Macbeth’. It’s hard rock-n-roll time: greasy guitars grunt and a piano ticks away quickly over this spastic track for Shakespeare’s title-king. The fast shuffle pace breaks for some satisfying jumps in the chorus, these little hitches and hesitations like musical renderings of Macbeth’s paranoid worry. “It’s gotta be me or it’s gotta be you”. But alas, the mad Macbeth ultimately commits to his tragedy by screaming: “it’s all right by me!” Then approaches the imperial ‘Paris 1919’ title-track. Its exclusively orchestral score evokes royalty. This classical mood reminds of times begone. Strings slice like swords on one chord, attacking it again-n-again. Lower voices embark on a dangerous and dissonant reconnaissance mission, rumbling bravely in their military motive. The tension breaks when some spirited singing starts. Chords descend. Chorus comes catching the ear with cries of “you’re the ghost!” and a syncopated series of lovely little-kid-like “la la la”s. Pace changes with a rhapsodic instrumental interlude where the beat breaks and birds chirp and pianos cascade and a French horn carries the tune with a plaintive purity. Back to the sword-chords: last verse ends with the wonderfully elusive line of “as the crowds begin complaining / that the Beaujolais is raining / down on darkened meetings on the Champs-Elysées”. Somehow, it’s a sing-a-long. ‘Graham Greene’ goes on with odd tuneless piano and squirrely strums. There’s a wee warble-organ working its way through the twee track. Busy drums-n-bass stay tight and well balanced all bobbing song. Stay tuned for a twinkly marimba and a touch of trumpet. From the opening line of “You’re having tea with Graham Greene / in the colored costume of your choice / and you’ll be held in high esteem / if you’re seen…”, it’s actually quite clear that the song’s on the subject of stiff high-society and all of its vainglorious waste. A train travelogue, the next tune takes place on an early-hours commute across the country. ‘Half Past France’ heaves with a slow-drone and not-incongruous honky-tonk guitar. A golden organ hangs on huge like morning mist underneath reflections about Old Hollweg from Norway and the well-fed denizens back in Berlin. Chorus makes moves with drum-beat, “daily bread”, and drawn-out “take your time” most divine before quiet choir comments about being “so far away”, anthemically. ‘Antarctica Starts Here’ at the end of the album. Mellow electric piano plays over a melodic lil bass solo of soulful spirit. All the words are whispered wearily with wistful passion. The debilitated delivery only enhances the fragile feel of the piece that features lovely lines like “the fading bride’s dull beauty grows / just begging to be seen / beneath the magic lights that reach from Barbary to here”. Triumph and tragedy. It all collapses into a confused chord. The artful pop of Paris 1919 is intelligent and accessible. I'd say the rocker-songs aren't on par with the rest of the record, but that's probably just personally preference!