B.C. Camplight - 'Hide, Run Away' (One Little Indian) Released 03/10/05

Hailing from the ‘One Little Indian’ label, that boasts jewels such as Bjork, arrives the mixed-up-versions-of-other-artists bag boy; Brian Christinzio, of B. C. Camplight. You might want to 'Hide, Run Away' after a listen, or you may choose to invite someone else’s friends over for an afternoon of averages, and alternate it with the likes of Norah Jones. Perhaps this is too cruel a comment for someone who loves the good music he makes so much, that he can’t bare to steer his own musical path away from it. It’s true the music’s all ‘original’ work, AKA there are no covers as such, but why this album’s not dedicated to Brian Wilson and The Beach Boys is anyone’s guess.

Don’t despair Happy Poplar Music tree fans, such sweet gems as if ‘You Think I Don't Mean It' is a sweet little inoffensive number basking in the rays of catchy something or others. But therein’s the problem. No song really has a whole lot of anything except the (can one mention again?!) Brian Wilson overclones, sorry overtones. From the start ‘Couldn't You Tell' promises to be embedded within the fabric of the porch swing chair in ‘The Waltons’. Its reminiscent of places where there’s some crass kind of cruelty that only country folk can offer.

Its hard to admit but ‘Emily's Dead To Me' really is quite cool. While it doesn’t have the ‘Belle and Sebastian’ sense of tumour one keeps hoping Christinzio might realise, it works very nicely as a lengthy interlude/short song that breaks up the otherwise quite irritating self clattering (yes, he plays them all himself) of instruments. ‘La, La, La’ conjures images of religious music of the ‘basic praise’ variety. "He thinks he’s Jesus" which confirms imagined figures of hippies at a wedding who brag, unwisely, about limited customs and talent. Thereby resembling the pinch of Tropicana that can sweat on hiring local talent for weddings/barmizvas/funerals etc….

The track that beats all competition in crapness goes to ‘Parapaleejeo'; the story of a man telling his missus of an affair he had with a circus performer, strangely referred to as ‘it’. The story’s ‘fun’, but the ride’s an IMAX into the industrial mind of a schizophrenic clown with all his blind, fingerless kiddy percussion personalities. However, all is not lost, ‘Sleep With Your Lights On’ is a lovely lullaby –simmering in sweet threats to an Ex- to fall asleep to, which can be quite handy to know when the stereo’s in next doors tent and you’ve lost the wrong camplight.