Owensie: Citizens

Since Michael Owens made the leap from punk guitarist to acoustically-inclined singer-songwriter, a leap that was triumphantly captured on his sleepy solo album Aliens, a handful of former spazz rockers have ventured down the same unfamiliar path. From Bloc Party’s Kele Okereke to ASIWYFA’s Tony Wright, the shocks just keep coming, as more and more seasoned riffwranglers fearlessly strip their artistic set-up back to just a bloke and a guitar.
Far from a sign that rock is dead (please, not that again…), this pattern suggests that boys who specialise in making loud noises sometimes relish the opportunity to tell a simple story. If this particular example is anything to go by, it also proves that a drastic flip in sound can be a truly magical thing.
But what’s really remarkable about Michael Owens’ current incarnation is that just when you think you’re listening to a musician transformed, you’re hit with a pleasant flashback to the Dubliner’s former life. Songs like ‘Hang Your Head Low’, the thundering opener to second album Citizens, make you wonder if this isn’t punk after all, just punk wearing a different dress. Beneath all that rhythmic sweetness, the hushed melodies and understated vocal, there’s a reckless energy that your average vox-and-guitar number simply can’t provide.
Elsewhere, you’ll find unshakably smooth first single ‘Distance Of Her Love’, a sentimental number with a sweetly swinging melody, which Owensie delivers in a devastating, creaky falsetto. Equally romantic is ‘Rogue Trader’, a string-led lament with oodles of charm.
Citizens is musically eclectic: a theatrically honking brass section adds to the lushness of ‘Circle Of Lies’, while an electric guitar is briefly allowed to Bogart the spotlight on ‘Go On’. For all this instrumental experimentation though, the best thing about Citizens is Owensie himself. The Dubliner’s stories tend to be quite heavy (‘Distance Of Her Love’ speaks of a woman who leaves her home country to provide for her children; ‘Doing It All’ is a multi-sided ode to single parents), but thanks to some nursery rhyme-esque prose (see lines like, “Last July, I made you cry” and “All I want is apples and sunrise”), it never feels like we’re being whined at, even when the subject matter turns to politics, emigration or heartbreak.
With Aliens, Owensie hit on something special – an ageless, groove-led, jazz-infused sound that begged to be enjoyed in the wee hours over a bottle of wine. Somehow, Citizens manages to takes a step forward and a step back at the same time. Boasting a little more vulnerability and a lot more musicality, it’s a confident collection of songs that has to be heard to be believed.