Dome of Discovery
Review in PILGRIMS, Jan 1994

Judge Smith: Dome Of Discovery (Oedipus Recs THEBESOO3) (review by Panander)

Humour is a difficult area for a songwriter, and humorous songwriting all the more so. Both wordsmith’s and musician’s skills are needed and, as in all songs, the twain must work together, not just as separate text and music. Particularly successful work often uses the way in which humour can highlight or expose absurdities in commonly experienced aspects of life or treat an other­wise serious or involved theme. The song needn’t be hilarious, but if it has some substance, it will work on a higher level than one which is just silly. Ultimately though, the appeal should be intan­gible. Who can say exactly why Rosselson, Lehrer, Hegley and Judge excel, whereas the Bonzos and Wainwright III produce so much lame work? (Put him down, Alan-Ed) Actually, part of the difference of course is the level of understanding of rhyme and meter in relation to humour that the former have, their work being of a deceptively high literary level.

So often to describe someone as a pop songwriter is dismissive and pejorative, but if we’re using broad categorizations then this is what Judge does - simply, unpretentiously and brilliantly. I place my promo copy (this is a solicited review) in the car cassette player and head for the hills. I often listen to music on the road, but it has to be the right sort of thing. Bands playing loud songs, yes; Fred Frith mistreating a guitar, for example, not really.

The first time listener to 'DOD’ is immediately drawn to its sonic landscape. As I pass the farms and cottages, and endless fields and hills flash and darken under the clouds sweeping across the sun, this bouncing, vibrant monster before me seems so much a creature of the world around. The choppy cellos instill the motion and urgency which so characterize this unique production and ar­rangement, while the snare has a refreshingly light ‘shuffle-clack’ sound throughout, complement­ing the other rhythms well. Duane Eddy solos and counter melodies, operatic vocals and a juicy brass sound complete the ‘band’.

‘What’ll I Do Without You’ is heard here for the first time as imagined by the writer. The last line of the chorus, which Lene Lovich dropped, is restored as well, Of a more somber tone are ‘Voice of the Night’ and ‘Giant Hand’. ‘The universe is a giant hand and the finger’s pointing straight at me.’ Well, that’s a relief. I always thought it was pointing at me; I can sleep soundly again. (You’d be paranoid too if everyone was out to get you.)

I mount the hump-back bridge too fast and the wheels leave the road. ‘God Save the Tzar' plays. I start to descend into a dark valley where my mind must chase in circles visions of capitalism, and from which I always emerge angry and helpless. Mammon must defend itself. Its greatest strength is in knowing that human spirituality is the one force which will destroy it, and so must be kept in perpetual twilight. Its greatest weakness, and the reason why its own murder is inevitable, is not understanding at all what the soul is, what it means to be numinous. I will not believe I must be led. I will not believe anyone has the right to tell me what to do, nor I them.

But as always, the sun re-emerges, the land glows and we smile and are happy again. ‘Jimmy-Jimmy’! Do you remember? Were you there when this was performed at the legendary Scorched Earth 1? We were familiar with ‘Been Alone So Long’ and ‘Gob On You’ and the bit of singing on ‘Firebrand’ perhaps, but were any of us prepared for this incredible spectacle of Judge, surrounded by and conducting imaginary choirs and orchestras, swamped by pyrotechnic lights, singing this fabulous song? It received such a tremendous reception - I’ve never heard anything like it. Minds were blowing as the place went berserk. If you-know-who had suddenly descended the Winner’s spiral staircase armed with a guitar, the pandemonium could not have been greater. I do not exag­gerate.

‘Carpet Tiles’ strikes me as a very sad song. As the business collapses, the price of the tiles drops with each verse until, through desperation, the warehouse is arsoned in an attempt to at least obtain their insurance value. And therein lies the twist.

It starts to grow dark in the late afternoon. I drive slowly through a village of several houses, the roadsides lined with stark, bare trees, their brutally angular branches twisted and frozen. As ‘A Place Of Your Own’ plays, the dark silhouettes pass either side of me while the music weaves thick black plaits.

Then ‘The Judge Rides Again’ and the band is stripped down to the bare bones, but it really rocks, albeit peculiarly. As Judge’s hobby horse gallops by, I can’t help but envision the scenes in this song, indeed on the whole album, as cartoon animations in the style of Ren and Stimpy or those weird Czech productions shown late at night on Channel Four. A receding figure cavorts to­wards the horizon, over hill after hill, as the TV screen blacks out leaving only a diminishing aper­ture around him.

As the lengthening shadows cut across the road, I too head for home and the tape reaches its last song, ‘The Dying Of The Light’, in which all the DOD characters are brought together and their stories up-dated. As the track plays, the credits roll up the screen of my imaginary film.

This is another gem to maintain the consistently high Edipus Fredipus standard.