articles
Alexi Murdoch
from volume 01 issue 03 // Michael Rabinowitz
Alexi Murdoch
Words: Michael Rabinowitz
Photos: Michael Rabinowitz
As I dictate this review into my mini-cassette recorder, my Civic hatchback sits in utter gridlock in Tampa’s version of purgatory, known as “Malfunction Junction.” My car, my body, my view—all are at a standstill. I couldn’t be happier. For once, I broke the cardinal sin of concert-going: buying the album at the show you just attended. Caught up in the euphoria of a wonderful first encounter, you are willing to give yourself to this exciting new discovery that you convinced yourself is unique and deserving of your money. Buying the CD of the show you just saw is like having sex on the first date. So, I sit in my car in the one bay area location everyone tells me to avoid, happily listening to Alexi Murdoch’s debut LP, Time Without Consequences. Having just seen the show, I willingly gave myself to this breathtaking soloist.
Except, I did not see his show (at Vinyl Fever on 6/21) today. It’s a week after the fact, and I’ve been playing the album non-stop since then. In fact, I purposely traveled the 275/I-4 interchange to increase listening time. At this point, Alexi and I are well past first date pleasantries, having already signed up at the Pottery Barn gift registry.
The album itself, a welcome entry in the alt-folk genre, is warmly crisp, with sharp plucks of guitar, electronic sweeps, and accompanied string sections. Self-produced, Alexi is the center of the sound, but is smart enough to allow subtle hints of bass, electric guitars, violas, cymbals, keyboards, and computers to herald in his melodies. These additions layer the LP with an expansive feeling, bolstering the sinuous quality nature of his vocals.
His overall sound is reminiscent of the late Nick Drake, and his lyrics are as patient as his sound. Each track opens up, note by note, like a hydrangea. One cannot help but contract his patience and relish each movement as it slowly transforms into another.
Similarly, he practiced this patience in his performances. Inside the cluttered record store, a car alarm, cell phone, and cash register interrupted repeatedly, though Murdoch’s guitar play remained unaffected. The crowd of 25 sat on the floor among the CD racks, rock magazines, and posters for a free concert and a preview to a rising star in the alt-folk movement.
Gaunt in appearance, Murdoch would have looked even thinner if not for his beard and bed-head. He projected typical English modesty: “There are so many of you here. I thought there would only be five of us.” Starting off with “Breathe”, Murdoch was appropriately surrounded by Cat Stevens, Leadbelly, and The Byrds 16’’ vinyls. This haunting track reminds the listener to “keep your head above water/but don’t forget to breathe.” He emphasized the chorus with a bass board, which is more or less an amplified wood deck for his foot to tap.
Murdoch treated the Vinyl Fever audience to more than the usual record store mini-concert tour strategy of playing the requisite three songs and then “sell, sell, selling” that new release. “This is not that sort of joint,” Alexi observed. “That sort of thing is for Tower Records.” Traveling with his best mate, Angus, Murdoch has already clocked 2000 miles and was looking forward to another 1300. But his performance was none the worse for wear. Asked what he looks forward to in touring the American South, Angus is quick to reply, “Waffle House, of course.” (Is there a British equivalent, I wonder? Biscuit Hamlet?)
The intimate crowd fell into a trance from the delicate lyrics to “Blue Mind”. A listener who stepped into the show would hear him sing, “slowly, slowly, I am drifting,” then suddenly, this one man’s voice would fill whole room, a darker James Taylor with the childlike highs of Chris Martin.
Alexi turned “Dream about Flying” into a pre-electric Dylan Ozark road song, reminiscent of the legendary troubadour’s “Rocks and Gravel.” The lyrics questioned whether the loss of innocence equates to a fear of death. Until we discover what death is, our horizons are infinite. So is it mortality itself or the knowledge of mortality that limits us? All Alexi can answer is “I’m just a man.”
Murdoch’s performance and this album have enough beauty to cover the entire expanse of Malfunction Junction. If only the Florida Highway Patrol could figure a way to play Alexi on all highways, everyone would look forward to traffic as much as I do right now.
You can pick up a copy of Time Without Consequences at Vinyl Fever, located at 4110 Henderson Blvd., Tampa.
Words: Michael Rabinowitz
Photos: Michael Rabinowitz
As I dictate this review into my mini-cassette recorder, my Civic hatchback sits in utter gridlock in Tampa’s version of purgatory, known as “Malfunction Junction.” My car, my body, my view—all are at a standstill. I couldn’t be happier. For once, I broke the cardinal sin of concert-going: buying the album at the show you just attended. Caught up in the euphoria of a wonderful first encounter, you are willing to give yourself to this exciting new discovery that you convinced yourself is unique and deserving of your money. Buying the CD of the show you just saw is like having sex on the first date. So, I sit in my car in the one bay area location everyone tells me to avoid, happily listening to Alexi Murdoch’s debut LP, Time Without Consequences. Having just seen the show, I willingly gave myself to this breathtaking soloist.
Except, I did not see his show (at Vinyl Fever on 6/21) today. It’s a week after the fact, and I’ve been playing the album non-stop since then. In fact, I purposely traveled the 275/I-4 interchange to increase listening time. At this point, Alexi and I are well past first date pleasantries, having already signed up at the Pottery Barn gift registry.
The album itself, a welcome entry in the alt-folk genre, is warmly crisp, with sharp plucks of guitar, electronic sweeps, and accompanied string sections. Self-produced, Alexi is the center of the sound, but is smart enough to allow subtle hints of bass, electric guitars, violas, cymbals, keyboards, and computers to herald in his melodies. These additions layer the LP with an expansive feeling, bolstering the sinuous quality nature of his vocals.
His overall sound is reminiscent of the late Nick Drake, and his lyrics are as patient as his sound. Each track opens up, note by note, like a hydrangea. One cannot help but contract his patience and relish each movement as it slowly transforms into another.
Similarly, he practiced this patience in his performances. Inside the cluttered record store, a car alarm, cell phone, and cash register interrupted repeatedly, though Murdoch’s guitar play remained unaffected. The crowd of 25 sat on the floor among the CD racks, rock magazines, and posters for a free concert and a preview to a rising star in the alt-folk movement.
Gaunt in appearance, Murdoch would have looked even thinner if not for his beard and bed-head. He projected typical English modesty: “There are so many of you here. I thought there would only be five of us.” Starting off with “Breathe”, Murdoch was appropriately surrounded by Cat Stevens, Leadbelly, and The Byrds 16’’ vinyls. This haunting track reminds the listener to “keep your head above water/but don’t forget to breathe.” He emphasized the chorus with a bass board, which is more or less an amplified wood deck for his foot to tap.
Murdoch treated the Vinyl Fever audience to more than the usual record store mini-concert tour strategy of playing the requisite three songs and then “sell, sell, selling” that new release. “This is not that sort of joint,” Alexi observed. “That sort of thing is for Tower Records.” Traveling with his best mate, Angus, Murdoch has already clocked 2000 miles and was looking forward to another 1300. But his performance was none the worse for wear. Asked what he looks forward to in touring the American South, Angus is quick to reply, “Waffle House, of course.” (Is there a British equivalent, I wonder? Biscuit Hamlet?)
The intimate crowd fell into a trance from the delicate lyrics to “Blue Mind”. A listener who stepped into the show would hear him sing, “slowly, slowly, I am drifting,” then suddenly, this one man’s voice would fill whole room, a darker James Taylor with the childlike highs of Chris Martin.
Alexi turned “Dream about Flying” into a pre-electric Dylan Ozark road song, reminiscent of the legendary troubadour’s “Rocks and Gravel.” The lyrics questioned whether the loss of innocence equates to a fear of death. Until we discover what death is, our horizons are infinite. So is it mortality itself or the knowledge of mortality that limits us? All Alexi can answer is “I’m just a man.”
Murdoch’s performance and this album have enough beauty to cover the entire expanse of Malfunction Junction. If only the Florida Highway Patrol could figure a way to play Alexi on all highways, everyone would look forward to traffic as much as I do right now.
You can pick up a copy of Time Without Consequences at Vinyl Fever, located at 4110 Henderson Blvd., Tampa.
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