SCAREY TALES OF NEW YORK

David Holmes is momentarily back in Belfast, fixing up some business, talking with friends and previewing some of the music that he s been cooking up in New York over the past five months. So, a visit to his place at the top of the Ormeau Road is an exciting prospect. As soon as you re inside, he s cranking up the Pavement LP, telling a few racey stories, and reaching around for the tapes and CD-Rs that bear testimony to his latest adventures in the Land Of The Free (and the home of the ravers).
He s not completely enthused about his time out there. The creative side of things is undoubtedly great, but the lifestyle is punishing. You have to find some ways to unwind after cramming so many ideas into an intense studio spree, and the resultant binges across town have been a bit wearing. The guy looks as focused as ever, so you assume that some of the damage is behind him. Still, all the talk about making a joyous record has been curtailed.
David had been inspired to make uplifting music after hearing Brian Eno in conversation at last year s Queen s Festival in town. His remix of the Manics You Stole The Sun From My Heart was his first move in that direction. But that intention has gone. The new Homer output is very dark .
But we re getting closer to the main event now. He s talking about the music he s just made for the Absolut Vodka advert, which will be shown in cinemas across the world (excepting countries with a drinks ban). The ad has a budget of $1.2 million. David calls it a trailer for a film that doesn t exist . It tells the story of a British DJ who gets washed up in Ibiza, and who subsequently has to deal with considerable mayhem. Somebody starts smashing him about with a baseball bat. There s another assailant with a steaming hot iron. And, as he s setting the scene, David puts on a CD of his soundtrack.
He s calling his new regime jazz-punk . One of the sure influences is Public Image, especially the subsonic bass lines that pay homage to the mighty Jah Wobble. And those intelligent, scratchy guitar features are kind of variants on the old Keith Levine style. This much is great. But that s only half of the story.
The music is bolstered by a a massive, foreboding arrangement that s a cool development on the narrative style of his Let s Get Killed album. Now let s take this trip a little further. Recently, Primal Scream got to hear the tune and they were totally in love with it. Next thing, Bobby Gillespie is writing lyrics for it, and the Scream team are working up their own demo version of the song.
Wait til you hear this, says David, slotting a tape of the said version into the machine. Now the tune has gone off on another direction. Loads of sleaze and scuzzy guitar. Pure Stooges, which David approves of. And Bobby is singing about the sickness of the city, trawling through the worst of it, empathising with the Homer atmospherics, catching a mood that s not unlike the second Primal Scream LP. A good call, then.
But that s only the demo, David insists. Just wait until we get working on it properly.
The Scream Team/Homer alliance is moving into additional areas. So we re witness to another track, an instrumental recorded first by the band and then deconstructed by the Belfast boy. And it s the best thing ever, a sustained journey into anxiety and danger, with live, street-funky drums from a guy named Kaz and the baddest horn playing. There s definitely a dirty, noir feel to it, a bit like the Barry Adamson approach circa Moss Side Story . But that s only a basic comparison. What s been achieved here is beyond anything else. Everytime the paranoia seems to lessen, the drummer starts to accentuate the feeling of dread again. This lasts for an age. Palpitations akimbo. This is legendary stuff.
Sadly, there s no chance to hear the collaboration with Jon Spencer, although David promises that he caught the guy on an expecially fierce day, and he was singing from the deeps of his soul. Finally, Homer picks out a vintage album on the Folkways label, and we sit listening to some jivey Afro-American rhymers, contemporaries of the Last Poets. They re shouting out their zodiac signs and launching into these proto-raps, full of verve and backed up by great, intuitive players. Here s another place to find adventure. The boy is off again.
A couple of nights later and he s DJing at Magennis s Whiskey Cafe on May Street. It s a low-key party, and mates such as the artist Glen Leyburn have come down for the fun. Presently, David is on the decks, pleasing himself with a mixuture of jazz, techno and a few nice surprises (Toots And The Maytalls, Tom Waits and Serge Gainsbourg all feature during the vinyl cruise). It fits the Sunday evening mood perfectly. While he still has to fend off a few begrudgers in the streets, it good to see that David still relates to Belfast and that many of the people respect him in return.
An unfortunate booking arrangement means that David is in Dublin the next night when the Manics play Belfast. And the following day, when the band are playing south, David has business in the north. But he features in many of the conversations after the Belfast show, when the band share a few nightcaps at the Hilton. James Dean Bradfield in particular is a fan and talks about the great surprise he felt when the last Homer remix came their way. And they ve been talking since about some possible, future projects. James laughs when he replays the phone conversations, in which David was pouring enthusiasm down the line, suggesting how they could bash out some tremendous stuff, collectively going to some higher level. No one doubted him for a moment. While he s in such majestic form, why should you? n