Distant Call - Collected Demos 2000 - 2006
Broadcast
Distant Call - Collected Demos 2000 - 2006
Boomkat Product Review:
A treasure trove of sketches, rarities and unreleased songs, 'Distant Call' completes the picture of Broadcast's early run, emphasizing the intimate folk roots of stone-cold classics like 'Pendulum' and 'Colour Me In' and offering sedate alternate versions of electrically-charged tracks such as 'Where Youth and Laughter Go' and 'O How I Miss You'.
Broadcast never really slotted neatly in to any one scene or other; their earliest gear - compiled on the 'Work and Non-Work' LP - had them lumped in with Stereolab and the exotica-obsessed retro-futurists, but the Brummie band quickly drifted off on their own, confusing producers, labels and their tight legion of fans in the process. Looking back, it's more appropriate to see their music as art that's stitched into the lining of the Birmingham canon, a muddle of high and low cultural references that is at its core a very British fusion. Their primary inspiration, at least in the early days, was The United States of America's sole album, a 1968 cult classic that tangled politicized lyrics with psychedelic instrumentation and bizarre electronic treatments. But tune in more carefully and you can hear traces of local bands like Swell Maps, Felt, Pram blurred by the West Midlands' omnipresent dub echoes and an autodidactic passion for art and protest in all its forms. "The avant-garde is no good without popular, and popular is rubbish without avant-garde," said the band's figurehead Trish Keenan, notoriously.
'Distant Call', billed by Warp as "the last release from the band", catches Broadcast in 2000, the year they put out their long-delayed debut album proper, 'The Noise Made By People'. At this stage, core members Keenan and James Cargill were still flanked by Roj Stevens, Tim Felton and Steve Perkins, but it was Keenan's nervous, romantic musings that gave the music its foundations, and that's made sharply obvious by these demos. While the finished tracks lifted production and arrangement tricks from dusty jazz and library music (think Basil Kirchin and Ron Geesin), movie soundtrack composers such as Luboš Fišer and Ennio Morricone and early electronic innovators like the BBC Radiophonic Workshop and Silver Apples, the songs themselves were rooted in older, earthier traditions. Here, we hear them in their earliest stages, recorded by Keenan at home with a guitar and a microphone. There are cuts that appear on 'Haha Sound', 'Tender Buttons' and 'The Future Crayon', aesthetically very different records, but Keenan's voice and songwriting keeps everything coherent, undeniably magickal.
The finished version of 'Pendulum', for example, is led by tight, resonant drums from The Tomorrow Band's Neil Bullock and acidic analog synths, sounds that characterize the 'Haha Sound' stage in Broadcast's evolution. But stripped down to its bare bones it sounds almost like a nursery rhyme, Trish's voice whispered over placid, saturated strums. Without synths, 'Where Youth and Laughter Go' sounds like a long-forgotten lament, tentatively brushed out on a slightly out-of-tune acoustic guitar. 'Valerie' meanwhile - an interpolation of Fišer's surreal 'Valerie and Her Week of Wonders' score - has never sounded so warm; no longer blanketed in noisy ambience, it's allowed to evaporate into the atmosphere. On top of these enlightening demos, we're treated to two vital unheard tracks discovered by Cargill after Keenan passed away in 2011. "Come back, come back to me to anger me there," Keenan sings on 'Come Back To Me', as if she's watching raindrops hit the window, her voice piercing the mist. And on 'Poem of a Dead Song', we get to hear the result of Broadcast's "Let's Write a Song" project, where the band pooled lyric submissions from fans, with Keenan weaving them into a finished track.
Not just for hardcore fans, 'Distant Call' is a Rosetta Stone that helps us visualize Broadcast's full spectrum. We can't think of a more fitting coda for one of the most important bands of our lifetime.
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Boomkat Product Review:
A treasure trove of sketches, rarities and unreleased songs, 'Distant Call' completes the picture of Broadcast's early run, emphasizing the intimate folk roots of stone-cold classics like 'Pendulum' and 'Colour Me In' and offering sedate alternate versions of electrically-charged tracks such as 'Where Youth and Laughter Go' and 'O How I Miss You'.
Broadcast never really slotted neatly in to any one scene or other; their earliest gear - compiled on the 'Work and Non-Work' LP - had them lumped in with Stereolab and the exotica-obsessed retro-futurists, but the Brummie band quickly drifted off on their own, confusing producers, labels and their tight legion of fans in the process. Looking back, it's more appropriate to see their music as art that's stitched into the lining of the Birmingham canon, a muddle of high and low cultural references that is at its core a very British fusion. Their primary inspiration, at least in the early days, was The United States of America's sole album, a 1968 cult classic that tangled politicized lyrics with psychedelic instrumentation and bizarre electronic treatments. But tune in more carefully and you can hear traces of local bands like Swell Maps, Felt, Pram blurred by the West Midlands' omnipresent dub echoes and an autodidactic passion for art and protest in all its forms. "The avant-garde is no good without popular, and popular is rubbish without avant-garde," said the band's figurehead Trish Keenan, notoriously.
'Distant Call', billed by Warp as "the last release from the band", catches Broadcast in 2000, the year they put out their long-delayed debut album proper, 'The Noise Made By People'. At this stage, core members Keenan and James Cargill were still flanked by Roj Stevens, Tim Felton and Steve Perkins, but it was Keenan's nervous, romantic musings that gave the music its foundations, and that's made sharply obvious by these demos. While the finished tracks lifted production and arrangement tricks from dusty jazz and library music (think Basil Kirchin and Ron Geesin), movie soundtrack composers such as Luboš Fišer and Ennio Morricone and early electronic innovators like the BBC Radiophonic Workshop and Silver Apples, the songs themselves were rooted in older, earthier traditions. Here, we hear them in their earliest stages, recorded by Keenan at home with a guitar and a microphone. There are cuts that appear on 'Haha Sound', 'Tender Buttons' and 'The Future Crayon', aesthetically very different records, but Keenan's voice and songwriting keeps everything coherent, undeniably magickal.
The finished version of 'Pendulum', for example, is led by tight, resonant drums from The Tomorrow Band's Neil Bullock and acidic analog synths, sounds that characterize the 'Haha Sound' stage in Broadcast's evolution. But stripped down to its bare bones it sounds almost like a nursery rhyme, Trish's voice whispered over placid, saturated strums. Without synths, 'Where Youth and Laughter Go' sounds like a long-forgotten lament, tentatively brushed out on a slightly out-of-tune acoustic guitar. 'Valerie' meanwhile - an interpolation of Fišer's surreal 'Valerie and Her Week of Wonders' score - has never sounded so warm; no longer blanketed in noisy ambience, it's allowed to evaporate into the atmosphere. On top of these enlightening demos, we're treated to two vital unheard tracks discovered by Cargill after Keenan passed away in 2011. "Come back, come back to me to anger me there," Keenan sings on 'Come Back To Me', as if she's watching raindrops hit the window, her voice piercing the mist. And on 'Poem of a Dead Song', we get to hear the result of Broadcast's "Let's Write a Song" project, where the band pooled lyric submissions from fans, with Keenan weaving them into a finished track.
Not just for hardcore fans, 'Distant Call' is a Rosetta Stone that helps us visualize Broadcast's full spectrum. We can't think of a more fitting coda for one of the most important bands of our lifetime.
Boomkat Product Review:
A treasure trove of sketches, rarities and unreleased songs, 'Distant Call' completes the picture of Broadcast's early run, emphasizing the intimate folk roots of stone-cold classics like 'Pendulum' and 'Colour Me In' and offering sedate alternate versions of electrically-charged tracks such as 'Where Youth and Laughter Go' and 'O How I Miss You'.
Broadcast never really slotted neatly in to any one scene or other; their earliest gear - compiled on the 'Work and Non-Work' LP - had them lumped in with Stereolab and the exotica-obsessed retro-futurists, but the Brummie band quickly drifted off on their own, confusing producers, labels and their tight legion of fans in the process. Looking back, it's more appropriate to see their music as art that's stitched into the lining of the Birmingham canon, a muddle of high and low cultural references that is at its core a very British fusion. Their primary inspiration, at least in the early days, was The United States of America's sole album, a 1968 cult classic that tangled politicized lyrics with psychedelic instrumentation and bizarre electronic treatments. But tune in more carefully and you can hear traces of local bands like Swell Maps, Felt, Pram blurred by the West Midlands' omnipresent dub echoes and an autodidactic passion for art and protest in all its forms. "The avant-garde is no good without popular, and popular is rubbish without avant-garde," said the band's figurehead Trish Keenan, notoriously.
'Distant Call', billed by Warp as "the last release from the band", catches Broadcast in 2000, the year they put out their long-delayed debut album proper, 'The Noise Made By People'. At this stage, core members Keenan and James Cargill were still flanked by Roj Stevens, Tim Felton and Steve Perkins, but it was Keenan's nervous, romantic musings that gave the music its foundations, and that's made sharply obvious by these demos. While the finished tracks lifted production and arrangement tricks from dusty jazz and library music (think Basil Kirchin and Ron Geesin), movie soundtrack composers such as Luboš Fišer and Ennio Morricone and early electronic innovators like the BBC Radiophonic Workshop and Silver Apples, the songs themselves were rooted in older, earthier traditions. Here, we hear them in their earliest stages, recorded by Keenan at home with a guitar and a microphone. There are cuts that appear on 'Haha Sound', 'Tender Buttons' and 'The Future Crayon', aesthetically very different records, but Keenan's voice and songwriting keeps everything coherent, undeniably magickal.
The finished version of 'Pendulum', for example, is led by tight, resonant drums from The Tomorrow Band's Neil Bullock and acidic analog synths, sounds that characterize the 'Haha Sound' stage in Broadcast's evolution. But stripped down to its bare bones it sounds almost like a nursery rhyme, Trish's voice whispered over placid, saturated strums. Without synths, 'Where Youth and Laughter Go' sounds like a long-forgotten lament, tentatively brushed out on a slightly out-of-tune acoustic guitar. 'Valerie' meanwhile - an interpolation of Fišer's surreal 'Valerie and Her Week of Wonders' score - has never sounded so warm; no longer blanketed in noisy ambience, it's allowed to evaporate into the atmosphere. On top of these enlightening demos, we're treated to two vital unheard tracks discovered by Cargill after Keenan passed away in 2011. "Come back, come back to me to anger me there," Keenan sings on 'Come Back To Me', as if she's watching raindrops hit the window, her voice piercing the mist. And on 'Poem of a Dead Song', we get to hear the result of Broadcast's "Let's Write a Song" project, where the band pooled lyric submissions from fans, with Keenan weaving them into a finished track.
Not just for hardcore fans, 'Distant Call' is a Rosetta Stone that helps us visualize Broadcast's full spectrum. We can't think of a more fitting coda for one of the most important bands of our lifetime.
Boomkat Product Review:
A treasure trove of sketches, rarities and unreleased songs, 'Distant Call' completes the picture of Broadcast's early run, emphasizing the intimate folk roots of stone-cold classics like 'Pendulum' and 'Colour Me In' and offering sedate alternate versions of electrically-charged tracks such as 'Where Youth and Laughter Go' and 'O How I Miss You'.
Broadcast never really slotted neatly in to any one scene or other; their earliest gear - compiled on the 'Work and Non-Work' LP - had them lumped in with Stereolab and the exotica-obsessed retro-futurists, but the Brummie band quickly drifted off on their own, confusing producers, labels and their tight legion of fans in the process. Looking back, it's more appropriate to see their music as art that's stitched into the lining of the Birmingham canon, a muddle of high and low cultural references that is at its core a very British fusion. Their primary inspiration, at least in the early days, was The United States of America's sole album, a 1968 cult classic that tangled politicized lyrics with psychedelic instrumentation and bizarre electronic treatments. But tune in more carefully and you can hear traces of local bands like Swell Maps, Felt, Pram blurred by the West Midlands' omnipresent dub echoes and an autodidactic passion for art and protest in all its forms. "The avant-garde is no good without popular, and popular is rubbish without avant-garde," said the band's figurehead Trish Keenan, notoriously.
'Distant Call', billed by Warp as "the last release from the band", catches Broadcast in 2000, the year they put out their long-delayed debut album proper, 'The Noise Made By People'. At this stage, core members Keenan and James Cargill were still flanked by Roj Stevens, Tim Felton and Steve Perkins, but it was Keenan's nervous, romantic musings that gave the music its foundations, and that's made sharply obvious by these demos. While the finished tracks lifted production and arrangement tricks from dusty jazz and library music (think Basil Kirchin and Ron Geesin), movie soundtrack composers such as Luboš Fišer and Ennio Morricone and early electronic innovators like the BBC Radiophonic Workshop and Silver Apples, the songs themselves were rooted in older, earthier traditions. Here, we hear them in their earliest stages, recorded by Keenan at home with a guitar and a microphone. There are cuts that appear on 'Haha Sound', 'Tender Buttons' and 'The Future Crayon', aesthetically very different records, but Keenan's voice and songwriting keeps everything coherent, undeniably magickal.
The finished version of 'Pendulum', for example, is led by tight, resonant drums from The Tomorrow Band's Neil Bullock and acidic analog synths, sounds that characterize the 'Haha Sound' stage in Broadcast's evolution. But stripped down to its bare bones it sounds almost like a nursery rhyme, Trish's voice whispered over placid, saturated strums. Without synths, 'Where Youth and Laughter Go' sounds like a long-forgotten lament, tentatively brushed out on a slightly out-of-tune acoustic guitar. 'Valerie' meanwhile - an interpolation of Fišer's surreal 'Valerie and Her Week of Wonders' score - has never sounded so warm; no longer blanketed in noisy ambience, it's allowed to evaporate into the atmosphere. On top of these enlightening demos, we're treated to two vital unheard tracks discovered by Cargill after Keenan passed away in 2011. "Come back, come back to me to anger me there," Keenan sings on 'Come Back To Me', as if she's watching raindrops hit the window, her voice piercing the mist. And on 'Poem of a Dead Song', we get to hear the result of Broadcast's "Let's Write a Song" project, where the band pooled lyric submissions from fans, with Keenan weaving them into a finished track.
Not just for hardcore fans, 'Distant Call' is a Rosetta Stone that helps us visualize Broadcast's full spectrum. We can't think of a more fitting coda for one of the most important bands of our lifetime.
Black vinyl in printed inner sleeve.
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Boomkat Product Review:
A treasure trove of sketches, rarities and unreleased songs, 'Distant Call' completes the picture of Broadcast's early run, emphasizing the intimate folk roots of stone-cold classics like 'Pendulum' and 'Colour Me In' and offering sedate alternate versions of electrically-charged tracks such as 'Where Youth and Laughter Go' and 'O How I Miss You'.
Broadcast never really slotted neatly in to any one scene or other; their earliest gear - compiled on the 'Work and Non-Work' LP - had them lumped in with Stereolab and the exotica-obsessed retro-futurists, but the Brummie band quickly drifted off on their own, confusing producers, labels and their tight legion of fans in the process. Looking back, it's more appropriate to see their music as art that's stitched into the lining of the Birmingham canon, a muddle of high and low cultural references that is at its core a very British fusion. Their primary inspiration, at least in the early days, was The United States of America's sole album, a 1968 cult classic that tangled politicized lyrics with psychedelic instrumentation and bizarre electronic treatments. But tune in more carefully and you can hear traces of local bands like Swell Maps, Felt, Pram blurred by the West Midlands' omnipresent dub echoes and an autodidactic passion for art and protest in all its forms. "The avant-garde is no good without popular, and popular is rubbish without avant-garde," said the band's figurehead Trish Keenan, notoriously.
'Distant Call', billed by Warp as "the last release from the band", catches Broadcast in 2000, the year they put out their long-delayed debut album proper, 'The Noise Made By People'. At this stage, core members Keenan and James Cargill were still flanked by Roj Stevens, Tim Felton and Steve Perkins, but it was Keenan's nervous, romantic musings that gave the music its foundations, and that's made sharply obvious by these demos. While the finished tracks lifted production and arrangement tricks from dusty jazz and library music (think Basil Kirchin and Ron Geesin), movie soundtrack composers such as Luboš Fišer and Ennio Morricone and early electronic innovators like the BBC Radiophonic Workshop and Silver Apples, the songs themselves were rooted in older, earthier traditions. Here, we hear them in their earliest stages, recorded by Keenan at home with a guitar and a microphone. There are cuts that appear on 'Haha Sound', 'Tender Buttons' and 'The Future Crayon', aesthetically very different records, but Keenan's voice and songwriting keeps everything coherent, undeniably magickal.
The finished version of 'Pendulum', for example, is led by tight, resonant drums from The Tomorrow Band's Neil Bullock and acidic analog synths, sounds that characterize the 'Haha Sound' stage in Broadcast's evolution. But stripped down to its bare bones it sounds almost like a nursery rhyme, Trish's voice whispered over placid, saturated strums. Without synths, 'Where Youth and Laughter Go' sounds like a long-forgotten lament, tentatively brushed out on a slightly out-of-tune acoustic guitar. 'Valerie' meanwhile - an interpolation of Fišer's surreal 'Valerie and Her Week of Wonders' score - has never sounded so warm; no longer blanketed in noisy ambience, it's allowed to evaporate into the atmosphere. On top of these enlightening demos, we're treated to two vital unheard tracks discovered by Cargill after Keenan passed away in 2011. "Come back, come back to me to anger me there," Keenan sings on 'Come Back To Me', as if she's watching raindrops hit the window, her voice piercing the mist. And on 'Poem of a Dead Song', we get to hear the result of Broadcast's "Let's Write a Song" project, where the band pooled lyric submissions from fans, with Keenan weaving them into a finished track.
Not just for hardcore fans, 'Distant Call' is a Rosetta Stone that helps us visualize Broadcast's full spectrum. We can't think of a more fitting coda for one of the most important bands of our lifetime.
Out of Stock
Boomkat Product Review:
A treasure trove of sketches, rarities and unreleased songs, 'Distant Call' completes the picture of Broadcast's early run, emphasizing the intimate folk roots of stone-cold classics like 'Pendulum' and 'Colour Me In' and offering sedate alternate versions of electrically-charged tracks such as 'Where Youth and Laughter Go' and 'O How I Miss You'.
Broadcast never really slotted neatly in to any one scene or other; their earliest gear - compiled on the 'Work and Non-Work' LP - had them lumped in with Stereolab and the exotica-obsessed retro-futurists, but the Brummie band quickly drifted off on their own, confusing producers, labels and their tight legion of fans in the process. Looking back, it's more appropriate to see their music as art that's stitched into the lining of the Birmingham canon, a muddle of high and low cultural references that is at its core a very British fusion. Their primary inspiration, at least in the early days, was The United States of America's sole album, a 1968 cult classic that tangled politicized lyrics with psychedelic instrumentation and bizarre electronic treatments. But tune in more carefully and you can hear traces of local bands like Swell Maps, Felt, Pram blurred by the West Midlands' omnipresent dub echoes and an autodidactic passion for art and protest in all its forms. "The avant-garde is no good without popular, and popular is rubbish without avant-garde," said the band's figurehead Trish Keenan, notoriously.
'Distant Call', billed by Warp as "the last release from the band", catches Broadcast in 2000, the year they put out their long-delayed debut album proper, 'The Noise Made By People'. At this stage, core members Keenan and James Cargill were still flanked by Roj Stevens, Tim Felton and Steve Perkins, but it was Keenan's nervous, romantic musings that gave the music its foundations, and that's made sharply obvious by these demos. While the finished tracks lifted production and arrangement tricks from dusty jazz and library music (think Basil Kirchin and Ron Geesin), movie soundtrack composers such as Luboš Fišer and Ennio Morricone and early electronic innovators like the BBC Radiophonic Workshop and Silver Apples, the songs themselves were rooted in older, earthier traditions. Here, we hear them in their earliest stages, recorded by Keenan at home with a guitar and a microphone. There are cuts that appear on 'Haha Sound', 'Tender Buttons' and 'The Future Crayon', aesthetically very different records, but Keenan's voice and songwriting keeps everything coherent, undeniably magickal.
The finished version of 'Pendulum', for example, is led by tight, resonant drums from The Tomorrow Band's Neil Bullock and acidic analog synths, sounds that characterize the 'Haha Sound' stage in Broadcast's evolution. But stripped down to its bare bones it sounds almost like a nursery rhyme, Trish's voice whispered over placid, saturated strums. Without synths, 'Where Youth and Laughter Go' sounds like a long-forgotten lament, tentatively brushed out on a slightly out-of-tune acoustic guitar. 'Valerie' meanwhile - an interpolation of Fišer's surreal 'Valerie and Her Week of Wonders' score - has never sounded so warm; no longer blanketed in noisy ambience, it's allowed to evaporate into the atmosphere. On top of these enlightening demos, we're treated to two vital unheard tracks discovered by Cargill after Keenan passed away in 2011. "Come back, come back to me to anger me there," Keenan sings on 'Come Back To Me', as if she's watching raindrops hit the window, her voice piercing the mist. And on 'Poem of a Dead Song', we get to hear the result of Broadcast's "Let's Write a Song" project, where the band pooled lyric submissions from fans, with Keenan weaving them into a finished track.
Not just for hardcore fans, 'Distant Call' is a Rosetta Stone that helps us visualize Broadcast's full spectrum. We can't think of a more fitting coda for one of the most important bands of our lifetime.
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