Lest anybody be foolish enough to think that one low budget Simon and Garfunkel hits compilation would be enough for anyone in 1972, I've come across this other effort that more or less covers the same
ground as the last one. This time, the folk behind it are not anonymous 'Top Of
The Poppers' session men but Sefton & Bartholomew, a duo who, although
sounding like a firm of low rent undertakers, are actually (well as the
back cover says anyway) "two Yorkshire lads" who have "tried
successfully to re-create the special sound of their trans-Atlantic idols".
Well fair enough I suppose, but I'll be the judge of how successful
they are in recreating that "special sound" if you don't mind.
Harrumph.
And now having sat through it, I can say
at the start that those Yorkshire lads make a much better fist of it than the
last lot. A lot better in fact. But before anyone breaks out the brandy
and cigars, I should caveat that with the observation that the 'last lot'
managed to set a bar low enough for an elephant to clear, and elephants can't
jump. That's not to damn all my positivity as feint praise, and musically it
strives to be as faithful as it can be, albeit in a rough approximation kind of
way. But just like that over literal cover shot of a bridge over some fairly
calm looking waters, it's simply not right.
That's because the overall impression I get
from this is like tracing a Leonardo sketch and then photocopying it on a
machine low on toner; it's 'there' in essence, and you can make out the
detail, but it lacks all impact, substance and emotion - you simply don't 'feel'
any of these songs the way you should with Simon and Garfunkel. Maybe it's
churlish to over criticise on these grounds - Simon racked up Herculean hours in
the studio to create the originals and so in at least getting to first base in
replicating them on a shoestring, it would be fairer to recall Dr Johnson's
comment about seeing a dog walking on its hind legs; it doesn't
do it well, but the surprise is to find it can do it at
all.
By far the weakest link in this
chain, however, are the vocals; for all those attempts to mirror the music,
Sefton and Bartholomew simply don't have the raw materials to pull them off. Not
with any conviction anyway. Garfunkel's soaring choirboy tenor could fill a
cathedral unamplified, but even in tandem the voices here would struggle to fill
a garden shed. There's an attempt to disguise their shortcomings via an over use
of pained falsettos and a treacly production that drowns them in echo, but
despite the smoke and mirrors at heart they harmonise as well as water and
electricity in a bathtub and the missed notes drop as subtly as spanners onto a
tin roof with the wincing frequency of Chinese water
torture.
I suppose this would be passable
enough if they were earning their shilling by busking this stuff in a subway,
but played through a decent system (which - ahem - I have), then nobody's
fooled, there's nowhere to hide and they are exposed as surely as a searchlight
pinpointing out two prisoners trying to escape over the wall dressed as a
pantomime horse - a clumsy attempt that's doomed to failure. Again, if I
couldn't afford the real McCoy then I really would rather go without; this
wouldn't fill the Simon and Garfunkel sized gap in any
collection.
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