REVIEW: Skinny Pelembe – Hardly The Same Snake

The phrase ‘hardly the same snake’ evokes themes of transformation. The shedding of old skin. Rebirth, personal or political. Then again, it could also represent absurdity. A statement that one snake is ‘hardly the same’ as another seems a moot point: it’s still a goddamn snake. Or it could be a comparative idiom: another way of saying a well-worn phrase like ‘a different animal’. You might be able to tell that over the weeks and months since its release, I’ve pondered the meaning of Skinny Pelembe’s second album title a lot – probably because by the end of each listen I don’t feel any closer to the real meaning.

This sums up a frustration I have with the music of Skinny Pelembe (real name Doya Beardmore). He has this absorbing, dexterous attention to detail and texture in his sound, yet his lyrics often seem inscrutable. Curious phrases are uttered, then float away in the stream of consciousness of the surrounding words. Perhaps this is the intention. After all, his music does seem to concern itself with setting a mood above all else. But as a fellow child of Yorkshire with a mixed African and British parentage, I’m intrigued by his references to otherness. Opener ‘Same Eye Colour’ begins with an abstract monologue that features phrases like “great new Windrush” and “by any means necessary” amidst a flurry of studio effects. It’s a tantalising scene setter, hinting at themes of revolution and community, yet maintaining a veil over its true meaning. I wondered whether the rest of the record would reveal all.

Any fears that Hardly The Same Snake would not deliver in terms of sound are quickly dissipated. The title track has a gorgeous ambience. Pelembe’s hushed delivery and the creeping bassline give the impression of the titular reptile slaloming through a forest. It immediately reminded me of the last record’s hypnotic soundscapes, which can have the effect of lulling you into a trance. ‘Deadman Deadman Deadman’ with its prominent keys and rhyming vocals maintains a similar mood, while a propulsive drum beat subtly adds a layer of drama. Yet on repeat listens, I found myself wondering about the theme once again. These professions rhyme well, but who is the watchman or the working man that ends up as the deadman? Archetypes of British society? Roles in an autocracy? The sinister undercurrent suggests something bad, but we’re left on our own to work it out.

The album is best when it opens into what are, by Skinny Pelembe standards, more traditional pop songs. In an interview with The Guardian, he said he wants to make more “big fucking tunes”, which the middle section delivers on in terms of catchiness at least. ‘Don’t Be Another’ is a glorious, swooning, baroque number. It drifts and winds around Pelembe’s words (“don’t be another wise man”), settling into a poetic second verse, before setting off again. ‘Charabanc’ takes a similarly winding road, feeling like you’re following the titular vehicle across some mysterious land. The self-harmonies, high and low, are captivating. And ‘Oh, Silly George’ starts with a startling outburst about feeling like an “intruder” on “matchday”, before the clattering drums and guitar riffs take the song away into a different zone, all deft vocals and swirls of ambient noise. It’s enthralling.

But again, each time I listen, I crave meaning. I keep returning to this because it feels like Pelembe has significant things to say, and he has created such intricate environments in which to say them. But, like a passing breeze, the words exist and then they’re gone. We never quite find out why George is so silly – and what those intense feelings on matchdays are.

The album runs out of steam in its closing moments. ‘Like A Heart Won’t Beat’ returns to the studio tinkering, moving from an acoustic toe-tapper to out and out alt-rock. It’s a head bopper but doesn’t come close to rivalling the songs before it. ‘Well There’s A First’ brings back the winding melodies that linger across the record, but unlike the title track or ‘Charabanc’ before it, it feels a bit one-note. The lyrics about saying goodbye to a friend may be literal or self-referential, it’s unknown, but they seem to be thematically similar to the title track. And ‘Secret Hiding Place’ is uncannily similar to the finale on the last Avalanches album with its morse code bleeps and choral singing signifying a place of great emotional resonance. It’s a sweet closer, but given how short this album is it does feel a little short-changing.

I struggle to recall having such mixed feelings about an album I’ve enjoyed listening to so much. Hardly The Same Snake is a more developed record musically than its predecessor, with some genuinely beautiful songs full of intricate musical detail. Its middle section in particular, is marvellous. But though as a whole it works well as a mood piece, its often inscrutable lyrical and thematic content left me wanting more to latch onto. Maybe next time a few more of those enchanting phrases will be fleshed out a little before they slither off into the forest.

Words by Tom Burrows