From the restrained fine print of his endless collaborations to the shadowless prominence of his solo debut, the British James Ellis Ford presents us with “The Hum”, his first work with his own name, purely written and composed by himself, without external additives or false extras. Whoever was fifty percent of Simian Mobile Disco takes advantage of the forced cessation of activity of his main band and a break between production and renowned production to carry out a commendable reinvention exercise, demonstrating that neither the comfort of experience nor the laziness attached to age are any impediment to continue learning and continue testing yourself.
It will sound like a cliché, but what Ford proposes to us with “The Hum” It is to sit down to listen to its melodies in a single stride and with the contemplative patience of someone who is willing to undress the many hidden nuances in its forty-five minute duration, because although the project does not suggest a lofty conception or estimate lofty pretensions in its narrative , its multifaceted construction and the plurality of its instrumentation are sufficient reasons for us to put our five senses into each of its ten contributions. Despite being talking about a record DIY pure and hard, made in his home studio and between household chores, the sound cathedrals that Ford is capable of building (adding, with a generous provision, a whole made up of pianos, clarinets, flutes, saxophones, dulcembeles, basses, guitars and percussion). they are equivalent to a massive orchestra capable of erecting completely cinematographic passages (“Pillow Village”), perfectly assembled with their predecessors and generating that sensation of unity that will invite us to want to stay there, once we have decided to enter.
However, Ford will not hesitate to make it clear from the beginning that this is an album by and for him, denoting, through certain hints with a taste of disaster, his evident intention to embrace that copious string of references that he manages, disconcerting us in occasions with script twists that, not because they are well executed, feel less unexpected. Thus, we can see him signing songs with his own voice for the first time, where he nurtures simple electronic indie-pop with a dose of sophistication and texture (“I Never Wanted Anything”), throwing nods at the roots of his in-laws with tracks that they combine Arab tradition and jazz frenzy (“The Yips”), slow down with hints of minimalist ambient (“The Hum”), or even flirt with progressive and landscape blues at the stroke of a loop (“Caterpillar”).
Rarely will we have the feeling of watching an artist do whatever he wants with such brilliance; although its liberating and carefree anarchy should not confuse us, because behind that apparent chaos, where disorder and improvisation reign, a contained emotion prevails in the lyrics (“Emptiness”) that speaks for itself and reflects on transversal themes that pivot to throughout the entire album (his recently released fatherhood, the inexorable aging or the weight of assuming mortality as another part of life). After all, we are talking about one of the minds responsible for elevating the career of some of the most renowned contemporary artists of the last two decades and that talent is now conjugated in the singular masculine and exposed without qualms or self-effacing to the whole world. . F
