Dun
Ringles Not Prog?
Dun
Ringill/Dun
Ringle/The Dun
Ringles The Four
Chessmen (Tape
Records) ($$$$$)
Connoisseurs of
the previous
work of
Knock-based
“Progressive
AGOFR”
tyrannosaurs The
Dun Ringles will
be aware of the
inherent tension
between their
roots in the
Avante-Gaelic
Obscurist Folk
Rock (AGOFR)
movement and
their desire to
emulate the
excesses of
their 70s
Progressive Rock
and AOR heroes.
The fundamental
tenets of AGOFR
demand musical
ineptitude and
poor production
values, as well
as a blinkered
view of popular
music centred
entirely on the
Outer Hebrides.
With their use
of proper
instruments,
their insistence
on playing in
tune and their
refusal to
record on broken
70s mono
cassette
players, the DRs
have always
trodden a fine
line with the
purists in the
Continuity wing
of the AGOFR
movement. Only
their adherence
to ridiculous
parochial
subject matter
has saved them
from expulsion
by firebrands
such as The
Guireans,
Cyclefoot and
Zing Pop.
What has never
been questioned
before is the
band’s
commitment to
their Prog side.
Any previous Dun
Ringles (or Dun
Ringill) magnum
opus could be
relied upon to
contain plenty
of “conceptual”
thematic
nonsense,
extravagant
instrumental
virtuosity and a
level of
Steinmanesque
overproduction
verging on the
operatic.
Industry experts
were therefore
shocked when the
advance
publicity for
their 7th album
appeared
recently, hot on
the heels of
2002’s epic
“Giraffic Park”.
What
self-respecting
titans of the
70s would take
less than 5
years, three
wives each and
half a dozen
trips to the
Bahamas to
develop an
album? You
wouldn’t catch
Boston knocking
another record
out as quick as
this. And them
ELP coves would
be turning in
their graves if
they knew how
fast “The Four
Chessmen” had
been put
together (and if
they were dead).
The speed of
this production
had most
insiders
convinced that
the band must be
undergoing a
fundamental
change of
direction. Was
“The Four
Chessmen” going
to be the Dun
Ringles’ punk
album? An
experiment in
lo-fi? A
“contractual
obligations”
album designed
to free them
from the
clutches of the
Tape Records
corporation and
its shadowy
Chicago-based
CEO mogul CJ
Mitchell (87)?
Apparently not.
There may be
some new
influences at
work, but all
the ingredients
of a classic Dun
Ringles
meisterwerk are
here in
tractorloads:
bombastic
production,
Vikings,
gratuitous
complexity,
multi-tracked
guitar solos,
unnecessary
tempo changes
and the
obligatory song
that begins with
the protagonist
loitering in the
Castle Grounds
for no obviously
legitimate
reason (why is
it that he’s
always there
whenever a
psychotic
monster giraffe
or a pair of
live wooden
chesspieces or a
rubber man
appears?).
The secret to
the album’s
rapid release is
apparent in the
opening seconds
of Track 1, It’s
mandatory for
any self
respecting 70s
Prog titans to
employ an
orchestra to
give an album
the required
gravitas. This
can be
complicated,
resulting in
months of wasted
studio time and
delayed release
dates. Wattie
and Jason cut
out the
middleman and
saved money
(without losing
pretentiousness
points) by
taping some
“orchestra
tuning up”
noises off Radio
3 and sticking
them on at the
start of the CD.
Apparently they
claim that this
is an arrhythmic
serialist tone
poem that the
band have
constructed from
“found sounds”
in homage to the
three key
figures of 20th
century avante
garde music –
Schoenberg,
Stockhausen and
Duncan “Major”
Morison. Having
met their prog
rock
artifartiness
quota up front,
the band are
free to launch
straight into
“Fish and
Education”,
their Tull-like
tribute to
Stornoway circa
1900 and its two
main exports at
the time. The
subsequent sad
decline of our
once-great
educating
industry is
unintentionally
reflected in the
lyric book intro
(“…His book
described
Stornoway as
been world
renowned…” ) and
the lyrics
themselves
(“…and some for
railway
station..”). And
presumably only
one and not
“many” can “lead
the world in
steel”? Fleek’s
sake! I’ve a
good mind to
write to thon
cove in the
Gazette that
does “A Word In
Your Ear”. He
could do an
article charting
the decline in
Nicolson pupils’
English grammar
from 1900 to its
nadir in 1981,
the year that a
practically
illiterate
Wattie was
released into
the community.
What amadan was
running the
place then
anyway?
Co dhiubh, “Das
Boot” is next, a
quiet
introspective
number about the
life of a boot
from its
conception in
Domhlann’s shop
to its ultimate
demise in the
Bayhead River.
(De mu dheidhinn
Allt nam Brog?).
A lovely tune,
this one, in
which a
recurring
pattern in the
lyrics becomes
apparent; as in
“Fish and
Education”,
Wattie sets
himself the
formidable task
of perpetuating
the first rhyme
of the first
verse through
the entire song
(leather/weather/impress
her(?)/feathers
etc etc). In
this case the
wheels are just
about about to
come off
Wattie’s
careering
lyrical bogie,
when along comes
the ingenious
“and my tongue
won’t even
blether” to save
the day. Jason
inserts the
mandatory
massive
multi-tracked
guitar solo
towards the end
but it fits
nicely with the
rest of the song
(not that that
would make any
difference). The
famous Dun
Ringle accent
slip phenomenon
(see their
Midges of Rock
2003 performance
of “A Tale of
Two Tractors)
can be observed
at its finest on
“Das Boot”; The
song begins in
natural
Leodhasach style
but by verse 3
we’re “acrrross
the moorrrrland
heatherrrrr”,
somewhere
between
Inverness,
Ireland and the
West Country in
the mythical
land where all
folk singers
seem to come
from. Too much
fleekeen Ian
Anderson!
Back up-tempo
for the next
track, with
Wattie not
sounding like
Ian Anderson at
all on the rock
‘n’ road thrash
of “At the
Wheel”. This
meditation on
the business of
driving a truck
very fast to
catch the
Ullapool ferry
ends up like
Radio Birdman
versus the
Flamin’ Groovies
with Lemmy
guesting on
vocals and Brian
May (again -
sorry, Jason)
playing lead.
Perfect, in
fact, were it
not for its
failure to rhyme
“Ossian” with “Rushin’”.
Oh well, maybe
on the live
version…
The tempo drops
again with the
obligatory non-Avante
Gaelicness
(there’s always
one!) of “In The
Night”, for
which Wattie
freely admits
the words were
made up at the
last minute.
Ironically this
is the one
that’ll probably
end up getting
covered by
Celine Dion and
going to number
one for 6
months, seeing
it’s a nice
ballad and it’s
not about
Leodhasach stuff
that the rest of
the world
doesn’t
understand. The
Dun Ringles will
make their
fortune from it.
All their other
work will be
forgotten and
they will be
remembered only
for this song.
“Gee, you’re the
‘In the Night’
guys!”, people
will say 50
years from now
whenever they
come out of
their fortified
Beverly Hills
retirement home
to buy their
Gazette.
Next up is “The
Mane Man”, the
band’s less than
subtle ploy to
ingratiate
themselves with
top SY rock biz
figure Jori “The
Scene” Kim by
writing a song
about him. Or at
least about his
legendary
hairstyle. It
seems to have
worked, as the
“Four Chessmen”
was promptly
named Isles FM
CD of the week
despite its less
than
complimentary
exhortations to
the
topiary-coiffed
Chicago exile to
“get a strim”.
If the DRs get
included on the
next Honcho
Recordings
compilation,
it’s doubtful
that this will
be the number
selected…
“Sea Chain”
follows, a
worthy recycling
of the theme
from the band’s
1994 Viking-era
historical
concept album
“Flang Your
Doodle”, which
also nicks the
rhythm from
“Fish and
Education” in
bits as well.
Sea Chain’s
chorus is highly
effective in
conveying the
labour of the
oppressed
worker, striving
to shift a
literal or
metaphorical
burden. In this
respect it is
reminiscent of
traditional
Gaelic worksongs
such as “Iomar
Thusa Choinnich
Chridhe”, of Sam
Cooke’s “Chain
Gang” or perhaps
Joy Division’s
“The Only
Mistake”. Or
maybe that dodgy
Spandau Ballet
song about
working till
you’re
musclebound.
Wattie as Tony
Hadley?
“Gallows Hill
Rooks (On The
Lookout for
Crooks)”
provides a
change of pace,
dropping down to
waltz time and
pushing Wattie’s
trademark “use
one rhyme for
the whole thing”
technique well
beyond its
limits in a
chorus which
attempts to
rhyme every line
with “rookery”.
The song
explores the old
legend (made up
by Wattie) that
the rooks in the
Castle Grounds
provide
Stornoway’s
original CCTV
system,
patrolling the
town at twilight
to put a stop to
any bad business
that happens to
be going on. The
obvious flaw in
the feathered
figilantes’
technique is
that they all go
to sleep long
before closing
time, which is
when all the
fleekin’
“crookery”
normally occurs.
Queen-y guitars
from Jason and a
Darts/Rocky
Sharpe and the
Replays-style
acappella doo-wop
finish complete
this number.
“Frost” is next
– inspired by
the ..err…
“frosty” sound
that that Jason
discovered on
his guitar
effects box.
According to
reports in
“Tolsta Guitar”
magazine, Jason
demanded that a
song be
constructed that
would enable him
to use this
particular noise
a lot, and this
tale about
staying in a
tent at
Kinlochresort in
February
(why!?!) was
written to fit
the bill.
Kinloch Resort
is evidently a
very popular
spot with
paranormal
entities such as
UFOs,
apparitions of
sunken U-boats
and, presumably,
Mac an t-Shronaich.
It is said that
you’ve got more
chance of a good
night’s sleep in
the Narrows at
closing time on
a Friday than
you have at
Kinlochresort,
so busy is it
with Martians,
drowned Nazis
and ghostly
quasi-mythical
serial killers
going about
their business.
Something about
the chorus here
is reminiscent
of The Soft Boys
or of Robyn
Hitchcock’s solo
material – can’t
quite put my
finger on it –
maybe the vocals
or maybe the
nicely dodgy
rhymes…
Speaking of the
Soft Boys,
“Carved in Wood”
lifts their
“statues coming
alive” theme
from “Underwater
Moonlight”,
mixes it with a
Chris-Isaak vs
Mark Knopfler
git-tar hook and
transposes the
action to the
Castle Grounds.
The King and
Queen chess
pieces at the
old sawmill are
mysteriously
brought to life
and head down
town (To the
Royal? Or the
Crown?).
“Wee Womble
Getting Scared
by the
Balantrushal”
sounds like the
title of a pipe
tune, so it was
a relief when it
proved to be a
hefty slab of
funky metal a la
Jimi Hendrix’s
“Crosstown
Traffic”. “The
Balantrushal”
(not to be
confused with
thon place after
Barvas but
before Shader,
which has two
“l”s) is a
legendary
wheelie bin
monster who
lives in Valtos,
Uig. Deamhnaidh
as ever in
setting himself
a lyrical
challenge,
Wattie attempts
to find enough
things that
rhyme with
Balantrushal (in
English) to fill
up two verses
and a chorus,
with chaotic
results. ”Whooshal”?
O, mo chreachd!
“Break Away”,
slows it down
again, a bluesy
number that
makes a
perceptive point
about the
inbuilt
schismaticism(?)
that afflicts so
many
institutions in
Lewis. In this
case it’s
inspired by the
carvings at the
sawmill again –
the band imagine
a chess set
fracturing as
all the pieces
leave to form
their own
groups.
Ironically this
could refer to
the Sawmill
Band/Woodland
Ceilidh Band/etc
etc accordion
enthusiasts’
split, seeing
it’s based on
chess pieces and
there are chess
pieces at the
sawmill. Or
maybe, seeing
it’s got a
Bishop, it’s
about the Church
of England
congregation
that split
between St
Peter’s and
Teampull
Eoropaidh
(proving that
the tendency to
splinter isn’t
just confined to
the natives). Or
perhaps the
Bishop is more
broadly
representative
of religion in
general and
could be taken
as a symbol of
the Free
Church/Continuing
split… co aig a
tha fios?
Anyway, the end
of the song
fades into a
noisy live jam
with all 4
“Ringles”
playing in the
same place at
the same time,
something that
doesn’t happen
often nowadays.
Rawk n Roll, as
they used to
say.
The big closer
is “Fir Chlis”,
the sort of
number that most
Prog bands would
have made a
whole album out
of. Luckily the
DR’s couldn’t be
bothered, so it
remains a “mini
prog rock epic”
in Readers’
Digest condensed
form. Evidently
not a tribute to
legendary Gaelic
actorrrr Sim
MacCoinnich’s
theatre company
of the same
name, “Fir Chlis”
is instead a
conceptual piece
based on the
romanticised
notion that the
Northern Lights
were supposed to
be some men
poncing about.
The song is
based around
Robin’s haunting
piano part,
which sounds a
bit like Michael
Nyman’s theme
from “The Piano”
(which in turn
was stolen from
Murdo Morrison
of Habost’s “An
Ciaora”, so if
Robin did nick
it he was only
reclaiming it).
Meanwhile Wattie
is possessed
again by the
spirit of Jethro
Tull’s Ian
Anderson and the
accent slip
kicks in with a
vengeance, with
“luuh-yitt”
being cast on
the edge of
“nuu-yitt” like
nobody’s
business. The
linguistic coup
de grace is
saved for the
chorus however,
when after a
last blast of
frenzied
metallic
fretwork from
Jason, the
“danzzzerrrrz”
announce that
they are the
“Furrr Clis.”
Obh obh!
Somebody get
them townies a
Gaelic coach. It
worked for Al*th
M*cC*rm*ck,
(well, OK, sort
of).
Linguistic
quibbling and
pedantry aside,
though, it’s a
fine and
genuinely epic
piece of work,
as is the whole
album. Musically
and
production-wise
there’s no
questioning the
fact that the
DRs have come a
long way over
the last couple
of albums. You’d
be hard pushed
to tell that
this was
recorded on a
home PC and not
in a real
studio.
Multi-instrumentalist,
producer and
apparent Anita
Dobson obsessive
Jason has pulled
it all together
admirably from
his Grimersta
control room,
with excellent
tunes and
keyboard hooks
being supplied
from afar by
Robin. And Jon
managed to do
something as
well. Meanwhile
lyricist Wattie
seems to be
shaping up to
become
Stornoway’s
answer to Ray
Davies; To me
the choice of
subject and the
observational
approach in the
best DRs lyrics
are actually
more reminiscent
of late 60s
Kinks at their
best than of the
immediately
obvious 70s
influences, even
if the rhymes
are a bit
suspect. So get
down to Sound
Tracks and get
your copy of
this genuinely
unique record
now. There’s
nothing else
like it in the
world and never
will be - who
else is ever
going to mix
grandiose
self-indulgent
70s pomp-rock
with lyrics
about old boots
from Domhlann’s?
Who else would
want to even if
it occurred to
them? For this
reason alone,
you know you
must buy it.
Charles
Shaader Murray,
Newvalley
Musical Express
Winner of The CJ
Mitchell award
for Most
Favourable
Review of a Dun
Ringles Album
(Sponsored by
Tape Records)
2004