Spear of Destiny – Tontine

What does it sound like?:

If the Who had recorded this, we’d all be saying it was the best thing they’d done since ‘Who’s Next’ (1971). We’d be saying ‘It’s a masterpiece!’ – and it is, but it’s Kirk Brandon’s masterpiece, and as both the singer and writer in Spear of Destiny, he manages to be Daltry and Townshend in one person, albeit Adrian Portas does the (concise) guitar hero stuff when it’s required.

Stretching the metaphor, fishing in a neighbouring lake, Kirk manages to compress the whole essence of ‘Quadrophenia’ into one song, opening number ‘Brighton’. Beginning with a woozy snatch of post-war end-of-the-pier kingpin Max Miller doing his thing and ending with vintage seaside verité, what happens in between is colossal, portentous, epic – scattershot reportage and impressionism of mods and rockers, gangsters and chancers back in the day. Very little rhymes but it doesn’t need to – and the town’s name gets stretched to a barnstorming howl of (literally) 20 syllables. These are recurring, distinguishing traits in Brandon’s songwriting – having the chutzpah to be liberated from Moon/June shackles to say what he wants to say in amazingly direct, real language and compensating for those conventional listener handles of rhyming couplets through the sheer power and conviction of his delivery. Like a page-turner novel, the listener is gripped, waiting for the next development.

‘MK Ultra’ is a blistering affair – on the metal edge of goth, with a cockney accent: brutish riffs, raging against The Man with a dash of pop dusting relief in the backing vocal harmonies. Seemingly, this one concerns a sinister CIA programme from the ‘50s that ends, appropriately, with (almost) a James Bond chord. Kirk doesn’t add commentary to his descriptive narrative but he hardly needs to. It sounds evil. Speaking of which…

‘Medievalists’ is powerful in every sense – fans of the Cult and U2 will find its sonic territory welcoming but its message is far more incisive with real-world potency than the fantasy world of the former and unencumbered with the postmodernism/irony of the latter. It is, I think, a meditation on the Ariana Grande Manchester Arena massacre of 2017. Kirk manages lamentation and righteous fury in a veiled way that remains sensitive to those affected, save for the Medievalists. This is a stunning work in every way – the writing, the band’s performance, the dignity.

After three full-on assaults, ‘Second Life’ occupies loosely the role of ‘Behind Blue Eyes’ – a stately, minor-key reflection on something that, well, isn’t entirely clear but seems to involve momentous decision-making (or does it?).

‘No Other’ occupies, lyrically at least, the role of ‘Bargain’ – a writer paying tribute to his muse: the one. The arrangement is beautiful – acoustic guitar, horns, harmonium… Musically, it’s a rest stop at the midnight campfire before the citadels are stormed anew at first light.

‘Afrikan Proverb’ begins with a slow burn, churning chords, a marching beat – it’s the gathering of survivors to Helm’s Deep before 10,000 orcs descend upon it. Whatever Kirk is warning us about here, it sounds like impossible odds – it sounds like a man telling us to, for God’s sake, don’t touch that thing labelled ‘Pandora’s box’. Except we just did. If U2 recorded this, it would be No. 1 everywhere.

‘Enigma’ is a screenplay – a tribal backbeat, low-volume guitar, chords like Woody Guthrie in Hades, a monophonic organ hook from the TV landscape of The Twilight Zone – it’s a compelling talking blues about, I think, an SOE operative from a wholly redacted corner of WWII. The closest we get to a rhyme is ‘He had a lighter engraved: 1956 / [pause] There’s no record of him – he didn’t exist’ – but play the song three times and you anticipate every line like it’s the only one that could possibly follow the one before. This is cavalier, magisterial songwriting, full of confidence – and deservedly so.

‘Monuments in the Sand’ – the tribal drums are back in force here and Kirk has borrowed Chris Isaak’s guitar schtick and added more bell-tolling, declamatory grit. We meet a Vicar and a Cowboy, no prizes for guessing. ‘Maybe the end of days is here so soon / Or the spirit of the Earth has called time on us / There’s no way back or off / In the year 2030 or ’40 there’ll be no more blood for oil…’ Just monuments in the sand. I am Ozymandias – look upon my works ye mighty and despair.

After all the doom, it’s time for celebration. Quasi-baroque cello, dynamic mastery, block chord piano, changes from the Townshend playbook…. ‘Mr Livingstone’ occupies the role of ‘Won’t Get Fooled Again’ – a classic album ending on a joyous rock’n’roll rush with the veneer of street-preaching hope to the masses. In this case, for once, Brandon has no cause to espouse, no doom to declaim, no warning from history – just, as far as I can tell, a homage to a lost friend from back in the day, a street-level character who once faced down gangsters at the Zap Club (Brighton) and wound up gunned down in Brazil. ‘Sunset in Rio for an English man…’ We get snapshots, moments from a life – but my goodness, if Mr Livingstone was Kirk’s old friend, he’s done him proud.

What does it all *mean*?

It means that Kirk Brandon is still reaching his peak as a writer/performer. This is a stunning work – 38 minutes of magic, recorded 40 years into a career (in 2018). Who else can boast surely their best album that far into a career? It also means that I – like many, I suspect – missed this when it first came out. Like most of his work since the 80s, to be honest.

Goes well with…

Earphones and sitting on a bench by the sea – which is exactly where this review was written this afternoon.

Release Date:

2018

Might suit people who like…

Music with passion, music that’s *about* something, music that feels like it’s fuelled by humanity and empathy.

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