Darren Hanlon

Album Review
I Will Love You at All
Darren Hanlon
I Will Love You at All
[Yep Roc; 2010]
7.6

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If you're a fan of painstaking songcraft, there's a good chance you've brushed across Darren Hanlon's name before. The avuncular Australian came up in the 1990s as a member of the Simpletons and played on a bunch of recordings by much-loved countrymen the Lucksmiths. In the course of releasing three fine solo albums over the past decade, Hanlon has toured with Billy Bragg, the Magnetic Fields, and Jeffrey Lewis. With enough wry charm and vivid detail to withstand such comparisons, Hanlon's unassuming brand of indie-pop digs up the mundane or eccentric and scrapes off the dirt until he hits on something universal. Until now, however, he's never enjoyed a proper U.S. promotional push.

Each of Hanlon's albums has moments worth revisiting, but I Will Love You at All is his most consistently rewarding effort yet. Not only because, as befits the self-described "urban folk" singer's leap from Melbourne's now-defunct Candle Records to North Carolina-based Yep Roc, it's also his most American: Adam Selzer (M. Ward, She & Him, the Decemberists) recorded the album in Portland, so there's a familiarly Pacific Northwestern tint, not least in longtime Selzer collaborator Rachel Blumberg's meticulously understated drumming. What most sets Hanlon's fourth album apart from its predecessors, though, is that he's no longer singing about squash or the noisy punk-rock girl upstairs; when he shows off his tremendous wit, it's now in subtler and more lasting ways than proving he can shoehorn the word "aubergine" into a catchy song. This is a record of heartbreak, rendered richly enough that you might not notice it. It's also an immensely funny record, with enough real emotion behind it that you might not notice that, either.

It doesn't hurt that there's a lot more variety between songs than you expect from your typical heart-on-sleeve troubadour-- or, hell, from most bands in this era of tinier and tinier niches. Ukulele, euphonium, and strings enliven "All These Things", an affecting call-and-response duet with Shelley Short about the trivia that comes to define us. "Scenes From a Separation" depicts beautifully just what its title says, but with keyboards, a waltzing-Matilda rhythm and more backing vocals from both Short and Alia Farah. Opener "Butterfly Bones", about someone who injures easily, sets viola, trumpet, and hammered percussion over syncopated acoustic chords; "Buy Me Presents" rattles like the Modern Lovers' "Roadrunner" amid bongos, saxophone, and sly observations about fear of commitment. Only grandiose piano ballad "What Can We Say?" feels like a relative misstep.

As on records by anyone from Loudon Wainwright III to Jens Lekman, it's Hanlon's distinctive narrative vision that holds it all together, rewarding the attention this album requires. Nearly eight-minute centerpiece "House" isn't the album's best track-- that's "Folk Insomnia", a stripped-down jaunt about broken hearts and growing older-- but it's the best encapsulation of Hanlon's gift for funny, pathos-laden detail. There's a terrible Barenaked Ladies song called "The Old Apartment", where they do little more than state the obvious: "This is where we used to live." Here, Hanlon does just about the opposite, documenting all his idiosyncratic thoughts as he debates going into an old home, notices the wall's new color-- "the horror!"-- and finally comes to terms with the changes, in a crescendo of guitar and Blumberg's drums. Memories, Hanlon concludes, are "best if they're left in a place you can't find them." If I Will Love You at All is Hanlon's "mature" album, then maturing is less about embracing the flux than accepting it, moving on to the next misadventure, and then sharing stories about it all over beers.

— Marc Hogan, October 21, 2010
- PITCHFOLK

The Metro, London

Agreeing to be dragged to a gig of an artist you’ve never heard of, by a friend who is already a huge fan is always a rather risky business. There’s always the possibility that due to your own fatigue you might under-appreciate an artist who you would otherwise enjoy listening to, a crime by anyone’s standards. The other possibility is perhaps even worse: that your friend’s admiration for said artist might be lost on you, and your failure to see the genius of the performance means that your friend may cease all contact with you as a result of your lack of good judgement. Going to gigs is a much more dangerous thing than you first comprehend, which could have serious ramifications throughout your life as a whole.
Monday night at the Metro on Oxford Street is the type of affair that would test any relationship; a dark, pokey establishment with a fairly tired air, and overpriced beer in cans being served from the bar. Being brought here by a friend to see a relatively unknown artist from her native Australia called Darren Hanlon made me suspect that I had done something to upset her, and coming here was some sort of punishment. An evening watching Hanlon was, however, possibly a reward for something done right in a previous life.

An unassuming figure, it was surprising to see such a sizeable crowd for a relative unknown, especially on a Monday night. This was more my ignorance than surprising though, as Hanlon had previously achieved cult status with his former band, Aussie underground heroes, The Lucksmiths. Consequently, the crowd was predominantly Australian, but I’ll forgive him for that.

Before the gig, as the equipment was being set up, the appearance of a banjo stirred the spirit of the Appalachian Hillbilly lying dormant within me. There are certain instruments that should be seen more regularly, primarily the banjo, trumpet and flugelhorn. If all else fails, the novelty of hearing such instruments enlivens even the dullest of evenings. Hanlon himself came on stage with a battered guitar, weathered by the journey that all good musos are on. This was to be beautifully lo fi, with the music supported by a rhythm section made up of foot stamps and guitar knocks, which suited Hanlon’s tender and intimate style perfectly.

As the songs began to issue forth, we were treated to ‘the first song to rhyme horse with of course’ since Mr Ed in Cast of Thousands,’ and perhaps only the second song since Michael Franks ode, to pick up on the illustrative purposes of ‘six aubergines and half a dozen egg plants’ in A-Z. There was undoubtedly a humorous quality to these tunes, but Hanlon is more than a cabaret performer seeking our approval with weak jokes and puns. Like Neil Finn, he has a humorous and unique way with words that helps his listeners consider things in a way that they may never have done before. His delicate turn of phrase is the perfect foil for his well crafted observations of late night, small town rural life in Australia.

This was certainly something that many of the crowd were able to identify with, judging by some suspiciously red necked individuals lingering in the shadows by the bar, but there was a familiarity within Hanlon that was based on more than just his nationality. He is a master story teller, a communicator par excellence. Along the edge of the stage sat many an enraptured listener. Hanlon talked to us as individuals on mass rather than as a crowd as one. There was much banter back and forth between stage and audience, making the event more akin to an evening at someone’s house than in a club.

Earlier that day, Hanlon had been to see Donovan, and had clearly been equally as entertained by the Old Man of British Folk’s self indulgence as he was by his music. Hanlon himself however, is refreshingly free of such off-putting tendencies. He illustrates perfectly that good singer songwriters don’t have to be maudlin, self obsessives, banging on about what might have been. Hanlon conveys much more universal sentiments, namely the ridiculousness of life’s minutiae, and love’s heartbreaking comedy of errors, which is a far more enthralling tale.

Hanlon’s songs have a wonderful whimsy to them; his curious lyrics stimulate your own curiosity as you wonder where he’ll take you next. Combined with deftly constructed melodies, he uses this palette to paint ever more fantastical images in your head. As the man himself said on Falling Airplanes, ‘songs are vibrations that stimulate the ear, tactile things, beds of melody that we all snuggle up in. He made sure his audience were very cosy indeed.

Closer Punk’s Not Dead was a raucous tale of a suburban riot grrl, which betrayed Hanlon as more than just a balladeer of sorts. His seeming confidence in the validity of his own inimitable style coupled with his disregard for neatly fitting a singer songwriter mould, is perhaps the true essence of punk, and a fabulous two fingered salute to the feyness of James Blunt et al. the disappointing thing is that as long as Hanlon’s gigs remain sets for loyal ex-pat Aussie Lucksmith fans, word of his talent is not going to spread through Londoners of this gem in their presence. Hanlon is residing within these shores until December, so if you get the chance, go see this craftsman at work, and marvel at what can be done with just a voice, a guitar and a healthy dose of intelligence. It beats the hell out of listening to James Blunt and trying not to think of things that rhyme with his name.

Monday October 8th
Review By Karl
- www.liveonstage.org.uk

So we’re not getting a new prime minister but we are getting a new Dr. Who. I’m just disappointed The Fishing Party didn’t do as well as they might have.” Election night 2004: welcome to the world of Darren Hanlon, where global politics pale in significance compared to the joy of buying a really nice pair of shoes, or that moment where you first make a pretty girl laugh. It takes a special soul to eulogise the unique satisfaction of having invented the bicycle kickstand, and Hanlon is skilled in finding beauty in the apparently mundane, capturing it with the smartest turn of phrase, yet never once appearing smug.

But for all the humour of 'Punk’s Not Dead' and admirable squash rhymes in the song of the same name, it’s often his more vulnerable moments that are most captivating. Not a pair of arms in the house would of refused him a big hug as he sang ‘I Wish That I Was Beautiful For You’, and ‘Yes, There Is A Chance He Might Fail’ is a beautifully wry lament for the outdone. Even ‘Early Days’ – a paean to the golden glow of an embryonic relationship – is tinged with self-doubt: ‘With eyes just like an angel, what does she see in me?’. We know Darren, we know what she sees in you – you are a true champion and we salute you (though ‘Brooklyn Bridge’ is a bit of a duffer, truth be told).

We didn’t need the six-song encore, but Hanlon and his chums – enrapt in dry but affectionate banter – looked up for playing on through until the next election, if only they could. The real highlight came at the end of the set proper. Drummer Bree Van Ryk, keyboardist Nick Luca and bassist Simon Wooldridge crowded round the mic for a haunting rendition of ‘Wrong Turn’, slowly fading away and exciting until just Hanlon remained. One man, one guitar….whispering now….barely audible: ‘I’m gone.’

Sublime.

Review by Toby Collard
The Hi-Fi, Melbourne Saturday October 9th, 2004
- Impress Magazine

Former fourth Lucksmith and ex-Simpletons guitarist Darren Hanlon understands that the difference between simple and simple-headed is, quite literally, wit. Like his aforementioned countryfolk, the longtime Australian musician has a knack for quirky tunefulness, good-naturedly ambitious rhymes and tingly everyday details, shared over shopworn guitars and embellished with piano, violin or the occasional toy instrument. For his second solo album, Little Chills, Hanlon soft-focuses on another set of unembarrassed odes to simple pleasures, this time with knob-twiddling from Calexico producer Craig Schumacher.

Hanlon revels in the mundane with the childish exuberance of Jonathan Richman. On one of the album's punkier tracks, Hanlon laments the dearth of songs about his favorite indoor sport: "Can't some DJ play a squash song in their bracket?" he asks. He indulges in Lucksmithian weather puns on "Winter Takes Fall", starting the day in shorts but "having second thoughts" (the accent makes the rhyme, natch). He visits every train station in town. He loves vinyl-shopping so much he almost spoils the album with cliché-- "your life's a film, who writes the score?"-- before redeeming himself with a panoptic closing incantation, "The record stays still/ While the world revolves around it."

The goosebumps of real-life romance have been a Hanlon theme dating back to dizzy, banjo-laden 2000 hit "Falling Aeroplanes". It's been 21 years since Billy Bragg released "A New England", but Hanlon's love songs still echo his former tourmate's cleverness, if not his righteous indignation. On "A to Z", the clear choice for first single, Hanlon asks his sweetie to read him all the names in the phone book-- "both Christian and sur-"-- and sing "the entire Beatles Anthology/ From 'All My Loving' to 'Yellow Submarine'". Any quibbles over his exclusion of John Lennon's Brian Epstein portrait (plus, bloody "Yesterday"!) would miss the point. Then "I Wish That I Was Beautiful for You" averts its own potential cheesiness with vivid specificity: "It looked as though the highway wore eyeliner," Hanlon murmurs.

For all his aw-shucks regular-guyness, though, it's Hanlon's oddities that-- as he himself might rhyme-- make his quiddity. It's the thrash coda of heavy-metal T-shirt memento "Brooklyn Bridge", the perversely slow and distant opener "Wrong Turn", the "half a dozen eggplants/ Or six aubergines". It's the self-abbreviating party ruckus in "The Unmade Bed", followed by Hanlon's simple, witty mission statement: "These are my principles/ If you don't like them I've got others/ This is my opinion/ If you don't agree, I've got big brothers."

— Marc Hogan, July 21, 2005 - Pitchfork