When I picked this one up from the crate I was sure
from the cover that John Grant must be a fiery American evangelist from one of
the southern states. In fact, that's why I picked this up - I'm partial
to a bit of hellfire and damnation and Mr Grant looked exactly like the type of
religious zealot who was going to deliver it but - mea culpa - it was a surprise
and disappointment to find on getting it home
that this is actually a British release and Mr Grant is a Scot from Glasgow.
That will teach me to judge a preacher by his looks I guess.
So where does that leave us then? Well, with twelve songs of non nonsense Christianity delivered with the earnestness of a man in fear and awe of his maker, that's where. In other words, the sort of thing that would normally have me running to the hills; he means it, man. Saying that, Grant's baritone is not unpleasant on the ear, but it is a one key flat drone of a voice that drips emotion the same easy going way a stone drips blood. Not only that, he also has the unfortunate tendency to seek out the vowel in the last word of every last line of every verse and hang on to it for dear life, lolling it around his tongue like a club singer chewing on a toffee.
And yet despite those histrionics, there's no underlying fire or passion in his delivery; Grant's agenda is simple worship - he's not reaching out to convert anybody, you have to come to him pre-loaded with faith because he's not going to help you to see the light. It doesn't help that I'm not familiar with any of the songs on this album, but they suit Grant's style in that, to a note, they're all dirges on Prozac. 'Christ Died', 'God Understands', 'Grace Greater Than Our Sins', 'No Name Has Meant So Much To Me' - none of these were written with an eye on a sing song around the campfire and, because of that, listening to all twelve in a row is an ordeal akin to eating nothing but brown rice every day for a month - some might argue it's 'good' for you, but it's also bland and boring and very soon you're longing for some variation in the palette.
Not that it doesn't try - orchestra leader Ian Gourley gets almost equal billing on the cover, and fair play his arrangements do have a certain Nelson Riddle on a budget zing that try to lighten the mood. Grant's voice though is having none of it and he steamrollers over any dissent from his agenda until they're crushed flat beneath the weight of his handwringing sincerity as a butterfly under a jackboot. I can be honest enough in admitting that Grant opens a door to a world that's largely unfamiliar to me, but he then does nothing to try and get me to cross the threshold to find out more. On one hand I admire its honesty and complete lack of 'trendy vicar' mannerisms, but on the other it makes religion sound like a chore to be endured and I'm happy to just leave him to it.
So where does that leave us then? Well, with twelve songs of non nonsense Christianity delivered with the earnestness of a man in fear and awe of his maker, that's where. In other words, the sort of thing that would normally have me running to the hills; he means it, man. Saying that, Grant's baritone is not unpleasant on the ear, but it is a one key flat drone of a voice that drips emotion the same easy going way a stone drips blood. Not only that, he also has the unfortunate tendency to seek out the vowel in the last word of every last line of every verse and hang on to it for dear life, lolling it around his tongue like a club singer chewing on a toffee.
And yet despite those histrionics, there's no underlying fire or passion in his delivery; Grant's agenda is simple worship - he's not reaching out to convert anybody, you have to come to him pre-loaded with faith because he's not going to help you to see the light. It doesn't help that I'm not familiar with any of the songs on this album, but they suit Grant's style in that, to a note, they're all dirges on Prozac. 'Christ Died', 'God Understands', 'Grace Greater Than Our Sins', 'No Name Has Meant So Much To Me' - none of these were written with an eye on a sing song around the campfire and, because of that, listening to all twelve in a row is an ordeal akin to eating nothing but brown rice every day for a month - some might argue it's 'good' for you, but it's also bland and boring and very soon you're longing for some variation in the palette.
Not that it doesn't try - orchestra leader Ian Gourley gets almost equal billing on the cover, and fair play his arrangements do have a certain Nelson Riddle on a budget zing that try to lighten the mood. Grant's voice though is having none of it and he steamrollers over any dissent from his agenda until they're crushed flat beneath the weight of his handwringing sincerity as a butterfly under a jackboot. I can be honest enough in admitting that Grant opens a door to a world that's largely unfamiliar to me, but he then does nothing to try and get me to cross the threshold to find out more. On one hand I admire its honesty and complete lack of 'trendy vicar' mannerisms, but on the other it makes religion sound like a chore to be endured and I'm happy to just leave him to it.
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