5 Welsh Albums to get your teeth into

Inspired by Huw Stephens latest book, here's my picks.

A few years ago, Wales Arts Review ran a series of features counting down our writers’ 100 greatest Welsh albums of all time. Huw Stephens’ new book, Wales: 100 Records, has inspired me to go back to our list and pick out a few of my favourites.

Important note, the mini-essays are not all written by me. The WAR list was a team effort.

With special thanks to the contributors who provided their words and nominations to make the 100 Greatest Welsh Albums of All Time series possible: Cath Holland, Tilly Foulkes, Caragh Medlicott, John Lavin, Gray Taylor, Nerys Williams, Craig Austin, Jude Rogers, Jack Boyce, Gareth Smith, Tomos Williams, and Gary Raymond.

Cate Le Bon, Crab Day, (2016, Amplify Music)

Cate Le Bon’s fourth album (and her second record produced stateside) is a shimmery, off-kilter exercise in lyrical abstraction and sonic lushness. Le Bon began work on the album by first irking out its sonic soundscape, even establishing wordless vocal harmonies, all before sitting down to pen the lyrics to go with it. Like a pencil drawing sketched onto a wet, paint-heavy canvas, the effect is one of beautiful abstraction – its lyrical diversions less important than the poetry of its sound, the baroque feel of its teetering, flourishing arrangements.

With slips of marimba, parps of sax and Le Bon’s trademark post-punk guitar riffs, the record manages to conjure lightness – oxymoronically – through its density. Nestled at the heart of its baroque meanders and Dadaist sensibilities is a love of play, one clearly in evidence in the single for which the album is named – ‘Crab Day’ – the song recounting an imaginary holiday, its outlook irreverent, its lyrics intoned with Le Bon’s characteristic staccato style. In totality, the album offers a unique and beautifully rendered tracklist, one which grows lovelier and more detailed with each passing listen.

Lleuwen, Gwn Glân Beibl Budr, (2018, Sain Cyf)

Gwn Glân Beibl Budr by singer Lleuwen is her definitive statement to date. She’s released a series of unique albums since the turn of the century (Duw a Wyr/ God Only knows, with jazz pianist Huw Warren in 2005), Penmon (2007) and Tân (2011), but Gwn Glân Beibl Budr (Clean Gun, Dirty Bible) tops the lot. It’s both aggressive and elegiac, manic and tranquil, historical but very much in the present. The songs range from raw, brutal guitar playing (the opener “Myn Mair”) to classic originals in the folk-ballad tradition (“Bendigeidfran” and “Caerdydd”) to a larger band sound (“Hen Rebel, Pam”) – Lleuwen beefs up the sound on these tracks when she’s joined by talented brothers Aled and Dafydd Hughes, and the exquisite string team of Francesca Simmonds on violin and Llio Rhydderch on triple harp.

There are still hints of Lleuwen’s formative jazz roots, (comparison with Cassandra Wilson’s classic Blue Light Till Dawn would not be untoward) but the whole sound transcends a specific genre and is an uniquely Welsh mix of roots, folk, religion and raw emotion. A classic statement from the second decade of this century.

Shirley Bassey, Born to Sing the Blues, (1957, Phillips)

Her first album, and it shines with the purity of youth. At twenty years of age Bassey was an experienced performer, but captured here is that raw passion for the American roots music, particularly for jazz pioneers like Spencer Williams and “father of the blues” W.C. Handy. In an era of confident chiffon-y women singers, Bassey stands out for her charismatic edge, for the intimacy of her delivery in these early recordings, but there’s also much credit to be given to arranger and conductor Wally Stott, the professional name of Angela Morely, one of the most successful English radio band leaders of the time.

Born to Sing the Blues, then, is a record dominated by the vision of the two women at the helm. This isn’t Bassey tentatively feeling her way into the business, this is Bassey laying down a statement of intent that would come to define her singular career.

Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci, Gorky 5 (1998, Mercury)

When asked the origin of their name, Gorky’s Zygotic Mynci vocalist Euros Childs answered that ‘we might as well stick with the most ridiculous crap name we could think of’. This sense of playful irreverence was absolutely part of the band’s appeal, but it also downplayed the skill invested in their finely crafted tunes. In Gorky 5, the bilingual group continued to offer psychedelic folk music with pop sensibilities, a hybrid which produced both gentle melodies and poetic lyrics. ‘Let’s Get Together (In Our Minds)’ was a single release and remains the album’s high-point – for its rousing chorus and the bittersweet sentiment that underpins it – but there are also several underrated songs hidden throughout. ‘Tsunami’ is haunting, making great use of the band’s instrumental variety and ‘Theme from Gorky 5 – Russian Song’ is a buoyant pastiche that highlights their self-referential sense of humour. By their fifth album, the expectation is usually that a band might be running out of creative fuel, either retreading previous successes or embarking upon misguided experimentation. Gorky 5 is neither, but instead an example of a band confident and successful in their established style. It’s just a shame about the album cover.

John Cale, Fear, (1974, Island)

John Cale’s fourth solo studio album opens with one of his best ever songs, “Fear is a Man’s Best Friend”, a riotous, bluesy anthem that stretches and reaches to a climax of primal scream-type discordance and piano clanging that simultaneously seems to be funny and terrifying, like Derek and Clive meets Terry Riley. It is a starling, euphoric, exposing start to a record full of bold, confident songwriting. The writing is enhanced by Cale’s core troup of this period, including Brian Eno on synths and twiddly knobs and Roxy Music’s Phil Manzanera lending a full and precise guitar throughout. It’s a tight, focussed record, which the opener doesn’t really set you up for. But that’s not to say it’s without a spontaneous soulful core. Quite the opposite. There is a shimmering, longing gospel vibe to tracks like “Buffalo Ballet” and the brilliant lullaby-tinged “Ship of Fools”. You can feel songs like “Barracuda” and “Gun” in some way are in dialogue with Bowie’s Diamond Dogs (1974) and Aladdin Sane (1973), with T-Rex’s Electric Warrior (1971), and particular his old band mate Lou Reed’s Rock n Roll Animal and Sally Can’t Dance (both 1974). Perhaps the most impactful element of Fear is that Cale seems to be having a great time making it. It comes out of the grooves of the vinyl  like a vapour. “Emily” has him replete in Tin Pan Alley songsmithery, and closer “Momama Scuba” has him in full on experimental glam rock mode. Fear is the perfect fusion of all the things that make British music of the first half of the seventies still so enduring.

Gary Raymond is a novelist, author, playwright, critic, and broadcaster. In 2012, he co-founded Wales Arts Review, was its editor for ten years. His latest book, Abandon All Hope: A Personal Journey Through the History of Welsh Literature is out now with Calon Books.