By Steve Weinstein
By Bryan Bierman
By Lindsey Rhoades
By Chaz Kangas
By Ben Westhoff and Sarah Purkrabek
By Jena Ardell
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
By Katherine Turman
Tjinder Singh was smart to begin withhe has one of those brains. An English-born Sikh, he first toured the country as a child chess champion, and in 1992inspired by William Morris, the arts-and-crafts socialist who believed art should "set the true ideal of a full and reasonable life" for the workerco-founded Cornershop with Canadian-born college roommate Ben Ayres. Cornershop began as a noise collective and grew into a DIY band that leaped forward when, ignoring Morris's anti-industrialism, it bought a drum machine. Cornershop was one of the first to meld loops, sampling, and scratching with more conventional vocals-and-guitar, but the band's hallmark was its mix of Punjabi and English words and music. Starting with the tiny sitar fad of the Help era, U.K. pop's subcontinental forays had been slight and dated fast, like kurtas at parties. Though initially the Indian musical elements were dwarfed by a feedback-heavy sound, they grew as the band grew, and increasingly the dominant element became indefinable. That was what sucked you in. Feedback blurred into drone. Singh's sinuous voice evoked Nick Lowe one minute, temple chant the next.
By 1997's When I Was Born for the 7th Timewith its hit paean to Bollywood star Asha, its Allen Ginsberg track, its squeakily delicious instrumental scratch, and, like some time-warp tweak turned into an endless conceptual loop, its Punjabi cover of the Beatles' sitar-flavored "Norwegian Wood" (which had always been about negotiating someone else's strange flat)Cornershop had a breakthrough identity. What made it irresistible was not so much the musical and verbal multilingualism, or even the its subtle political spin, but the giddy fluency of the thing, like some carnival feat so stomach-droppingly brilliant you couldn't tell if it was impossible or just a great simulationmoves his feet so fast while leaping it looks like he's skipping on air. When I Was Born for the 7th Time was so exuberant, so funny, so open-armed, it seemed the launching of a movement. Instead it proved a hard act to follow.
Handcream for a Generation arrives five years later and 25 years before. In part it's a period piece, including snatches of "Trans-Europe Express," vocoder, organ funk, acid-rock jam, DJ toasting inna U-Roy style, but most characteristically echoes of Stax or Hi horn charts, identified from the lead cut, where veteran r&b also-ran Otis Clay, recorded at a soundcheck, literally if somewhat uncertainly announces the track listing cut by cut. The conceit is sort of that this technologically alert, globally cool indie band introduced by some going-through-the-motions house-band MC is actually a second-string soul act in 1971. Handcream is leaner and less exuberant than When I Was Born, lower on warm drone and Indian elements generally and higher on Singh's sardonic modethe avowedly anti- "soft rock" yet pretty damn easygoing "Lessons Learned From Rocky I to Rocky III," or the string of cryptic social observations that is "Wogs Will Walk." Yet between the understated retro, a few Clay reprises, and various unheroic vocal appearances (most explicitly the nervous Punjabi introducer of "Sounds Super Recording"), it gives off a friendly, used feeling, like old vinyl booths in a new club.
As usual, lyrics are repeated until they almost take recognizable shape. Just to give some idea of how abstruse the meanings can bein Cornershop side project Clinton's 2000 CD, Clay's name is immortalized in "Welcome to Tokio, Otis Clay," and though the song never refers to the fact, or to Clay, Japan is the only place he was ever a star. How would I have known that without trolling Cornershop sites? Singh offered a few translations when I reached him on his mobile phone. "Motion the 11," a reggae showstopper featuring Jack Wilson and Kojak and a persistently unresolved harmonium, is the name of a dance move. But even when Singh explained "Staging the Plaguing of the Raised Platform," in terms of his political mission, I still didn't entirely get it, though I didn't mind; to me, that anti-"establishment" song was about a kid chorus singing "making the dope dope and the dope, dope," whatever that means, just as "People Power in the Disco Hour" wasn't so much about disco being "the halfway to a full discontent," which could be Cornershop's credo, as about the way it peaked with a most undisco sound, the doddering pips of an old English phone, followed bythis is the modern world!the good-natured anticlimax of cell phones bleating. In a body of work like this, where linguistic comprehension or incomprehension is a theme, and where sound itself is so examined and intentional, the cliché of music as language gains telling coherence. It articulates one political mission more credibly than words usually cancoalition building. Sounds like corny "Love Train" idealism, brought in to suit the Handcream ambience. But because Singh has one of those brains, the idea's mess and contradiction are accounted forboth relished and understood for the limitations they are.