Cartwheels

ANTHONY THISTLETHWAITE: “Cartwheels” (Rolling Acres)

THISTLETHWAITE’S a traveller, troubadour in the best sense. He stops here and there, picks up a couple of new friends, passes on and absorbs a few new tunes, and heads back on the road. The Waterboys. The Hothouse Flowers. Kirsty McColl. Youth.

The man’s a human magnet, every musician he consorts with ends up on Cartwheels in some shape or form. It’s a who’s who in the world of fly-by-night music. There’s a strong feeling that sessions which were conceived in far-flung and obscure taverns have borne fruit in Thistlethwaite’s studios over the last few months.

And the lack of pretension associated with such impromptu come-all-yes is equally apparent in the cold light of the mixing desk. There’s little that’s new here; there’s nothing that’s earthshatteringly innovative; but there’s a lot to hum to and smile about. And on a freezing night in December that beats the hell out of labyrinthine incantations and coronary-inducing BPMs.

Listening to Cartwheels it’s hard to resist a grin at the clichés that work so well, the hackneyed slang that sounds more like a shot in the arm rather than lazy penmanship. Take for openers ‘Cherry Dress’, Thistlethwaite’s elegy to an ex who had a predilection for that classic mankilling little red number and a liking for living in Lafayette.

Think you’ve heard it all before? Yes, you probably have. But when Anto swears that there “ain’t no women been comin’ round here quite like you” you just have to chortle at the solemn declaration. Then when he rounds up the ode with a dedication to “every Massey Ferguson tractor that ever didn’t feel like starting on a cold winter’s morning” you know you’ve been had and you love it!

And the rest is even better. ‘Communicating’ sounds like a tale out of Twin Peaks, with cherry pie but not a hint of menace; ‘Back To The Land’ tells a sorry tale of life in the city, it’s pastoral feel belying a tonne of regret and lost hope; and ‘The Tower Of Love’ sees him with his tongue yet again firmly planted in his cheek (I think) – or else armed with a fine sensibility for overkill.

Cartwheels comes laden with quantum sounds and singular musicians, a fizzy lemonade of melodies that’s best consumed fast and loud. I reckon it’ll be spinning round my deck for more than a handful of turns.

• Siobhán Long