Ever since Rufus Wainwright, we didn't have an author who is a triple-threat pundit, capable of having superpowers in singing, composing and playing. Now we have Benjamin Clementine who shook monotonous indie scene with his debut At Least For Now.Benjamin is full of assets, and one of them is maestral control over dramaturgy in pop songs. Another one is skillful swimming through the waters of complex sonic solutions, while the third one is vigorous and delicate amalgamation of classical and pop music.
While At Least For Now was a reclusive, yet startling project, Clementine's sophomore I Tell A Fly is a more edgy, crossover record, mainly due to the fact that Clementine combined textures, rhythms and melodies more successfully than any other over-hyped producer in the past decade. It is obvious that his score on self-confidence has increased significantly since At Least For Now. Sure, winning a Mercury Prize also helped. Breaking news: In some countries, awards are given to the talents and not to political-sociopathic-mediocre artists.
On I Tell A Fly, three quarter of an hour long album, you can hear electronic dance rhythms, but also classically inflicted piano sections and gospel-infected vocals. The signature is always Benjamin's. There are no cliches or hackneyed rhythms and melodies that would make you think: Well, I have already heard that. Clementine created a squiggly puzzle that requires listener's meticulous attention. You can not do something else while listening to his music.
Songs are mini suites that overlap and intertwine, converting into Clementine's sonic utopia. Approachability of a pop single is best to be heard on pseudo-muppet By The Ports Of Europe, and vocal acapella intro to Ode From Joyce is maybe the most thrilling thing I have heard this year. Weirdness characterizes the closing track Ave Dreamer.
Listening to I Tell A Fly leads to only one conclusion - this man can do anything with music!
