In praise of The The’s Ensoulment
The man who wrote ‘if the real Jesus Christ were alive today
he’d been gunned down cold by the CIA’ has returned to sing
Strained sense for the broken. For The The were a token
Both of the day they first glazed and a time still much needed,
Long sought and after his London longuer Matt Johnson
Sounds mighty; older, heavier, wiser, a prophet digging
Into soil and soul through love’s mine. There has been Radio
Cineola of course and glorious soundtracks for Gerard, his brother,
But after The Comeback Special, he makes new kingdoms of rain
In these songs. We Can’t Stop What’s Coming fuelled all,
I want 2BU, $1 1 vote and now Ensoulment; for soul always
Sources his music. It is where his heart and mind still belong.
The guitar grind of Cognitive Dissident grooves, shifting us
Back to the the sound I have treasured, Johnson’s particular
80s and 90s with new echoes for this century. It is the perfect
Point of re-entry for fans and a blazing door for newcomers,
In which this list as lyric burns like the bible that today’s God
Crouched beside us had perhaps always truly meant it to be.
The familiar phrases we know, and yet here they’re prophetic.
As The The truly tells it, as it always was and still is. ‘Inside Out/
Hope is Doubt/Back to Front/The Witches Hunt.’ From perhaps
The Me2 and Transgender debate to Politics as a whole,
And no doubt Immigration. In words plucked like roses
The blood from a handful of thorns starts to fizz.
War is Peace/West is East. From Gaza to Home, from Beckett
Back to Bob Dylan, Matt Johnson’s process stipped to the bone
Makes hope his. He holds the world in his hands and in just
Under 3 minutes, this Mind Bomb has more motion than a bird
In flight or grenade. And so it goes on through the sour suite
He serves to us. From drinking his coffee by the grave
Of William Blake, each sound made is one of refutation,
Release, and transformation. For these songs are sermons
For a secular God stirred through strings. And while the tone
Feels sedate, one hears the howl of Infected. The light of Dusk’s
Wah-wah pedals are flickering sparks as lines sting.
And when Johnson whispers he croons if not from the the throat,
Then from thinking, as his band and hands clamour to keep
Chaos contained skillfully. From DC Collard’s keyboards as soul keys,
To James Eller’s bass breathing darkly; Earl Harvin’s demon drums,
Gillian Glover souled vocals and Barrie Cadogan whose guitars
Make pure magic out of music’s starred A to G. And yet through
It all, as must be, and as should be forever, the man and myth
That’s Matt Johnson is both line and lesson in the alphabet
Of how it is we should be. The The from the off, were the only
On switch I needed. They sang through bibles and novels,
Manifestoes, plays, poetry. There was no-one like them
Back then, nor will there be ever. From our enslavement
To monsters, his ensoulment now sets us free.
Or sprechtsings of a way, or of a means for survival.
Whether through Blakean coffee mornings, or on a rainy
Day any May. From Zen and the Art of Dating’s blues
Swoon around solo Microwave dinners to love’s sainted
Winners in I want to Wake up With You’s ghost gleamed lay;
From Down By the Frozen River’s piano chill to Johnson’s
Warm lips on the wire; from Linoleum Smooth to the
Stockinged Foot’s film from fishnets, to Where Do we Go
When We Die? These are more than new songs updating
A style I’ve been missing; They are art’s texture on both
The day and skin as fate flies, while the other die has been
Cast, but The The soundtrack staining. They ache and ooze
And consider the smudge and smear, sheen and slur,
Mottled by most, or most of those who piss proudly
Into what were god glazed tears and puddles,
Inking each street with wronged water and turning oases
Into heathaze, steam and blur. The The is a true London boy,
Straight out of Hank Williams, Cohen, Bowie; Patti Smith,
Pavement, and other city compadres such as Johnny Marr.
They are the new wise. Yes, I can see Matt as Moses.
By which I mean the Matt of his music. Which is as grand
And great and grand as a star, staring through space,
Scorching sky to sing to us. Ensoulment might save us.
Listen and learn.
You’ll go far.
David Erdos 6/9/24
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