Hobotalk Homesick For Nowhere by: Daniel Grimsey Mon:28-May-07 Label: Glitterhouse Year: 2007 WB rating 58 out of 100

Last year a friend of mine started a club. The Disco Stu Club, created for people who wish that they were living in a decade other than that, which through accident of birth, they found themselves in.  It didn’t catch on, I think she lost motivation after the drunken night she hatched the idea. But, soberly, I would like to kick this club back into gear. And in my first act as President I formally invite Marc Pilley, the man who is Hobotalk, to be our number one member.

But even an honour such as this may not be enough for Pilley, as it’s not just a case of wishing he was living in a different decade, it’s a case of wanting to live in a completely different century; the late 19th century, to be exact – all Phileas Fogg, the Wright Brothers and men in top hats.

It turns out that this period produces a number of musical styles for Hobotalk to plunder. Obviously this was before rock ’n’ roll, so acoustic folk songs are the craze, with the occasional waltz (‘Life Looks Better Looking At It Through You’) thrown in for good measure. Instrumentally, Homesick For Nowhere is coloured by guitars and violins, and a scattering of harpsichord and banjo. This collection of genres and instrumentation makes listening to Hobotalk a little like a visit to a heritage village, where the wives still churn butter; washing their clothes on thee old scrubbing board.

These moments are offset by nights with drunken wenches in sea shanty pubs and gypsy campfire sing-a-longs. In previous albums Hobotalk tended to glorify aspects of the wandering hobo life – hence their name – and while its lyrically occurrences are minimal on Homesick For Nowhere, the music does reflect an admiration of the simple life that people led back then.

Unfortunately, this era also lends itself to a number of lyrical clichés. Back in those days, humans were closer to the forestry and there was more of it, and understandably nature based metaphors were very popular. But this album is over abundant with references to birds. There's a “bird in a loft” and “birds on that steeple tall”; birds everywhere and song titles such as ‘Between The Graveyard And Your Door’ seem strangely Edgar Allen Poe. While these words reflect the gentle mood of Hobotalk’s acoustic offerings, there is little in the way of innovation here.

And anyway, mostly it’s just acoustic folk songs, so what would you expect? With the limited instrumentation of sparse drums and acoustic pickings, you have to be a sensational songwriter to carry these tunes. This is where Pilley could use some pop hooks, of which there is a notable lack. Asides from the whistling riff in ‘Doesn’t Life Go On’, the ‘la-de-da’ sing-a-long in the outro in ‘Me, Myself’, and the lonely harmonica in ‘Don’t Say Goodbye’, the album is devoid of memorable melodies; a handful of fail-safe pop devices is not nearly enough.

In the place of memorable melodies, Pilley has attempted to go down the avenue of the unconventional – there’s even a guy doing a parrot impression in the background of the very Dylan-ish ‘These Times Sure Could Break Your Heart’. The song is based on a simple melody and repetitive, contradicting lyrics (“the living/ the dying/ the been’s and has-been’s”), which is a technique that Hobotalk employs a lot. As a general rule on this album, if in one line he says something happy, then in next line he’ll say something sad. This becomes tiring, and dilutes the moments when he gets his retrospective sounds in order.

Seemingly conscious about the need for atmosphere, Hobotalk has also inserted a number of those annoying little bits of music in between songs that go for about 30 seconds and don’t seem to have a point – except maybe serving as an ad break. The first of these is located at a Dickensian wharf, with a gypsy playing violin in the background; the second is a funk band made up of leprechauns; the third, a campfire party and so on… Seemingly pointless stuff, which does however show an experimental side to Hobotalk that would never be guessed at by the crooning acoustic ballads that are at the centre of this album.

When he’s not singing protest songs, Hobotalk wants to be a romantic. And if your definition of romance is to be given flowers and chocolate, then I guess he succeeds. But he seems unable to sink to any depths of despair, typical of the true reality of relationships. His songs are often about heartbreak, but he only seems vaguely pissed off, rather than seriously considering self harm. This is because he is focusing on the crooning, on sounding sweet, on getting an A+ from his singing teacher (which to be fair he’d probably achieve). But is it real? When he sings on ‘Falling For You Again’, “going where I don’t belong/ knowing that it’s way, way wrong” it’s difficult to believe him. The man is clearly an emotional cripple, and I don’t think his heart functions on that level. It’s equally clear that he has issues with this disability, which is why he’s writing songs, as therapy, to try and get in touch with his emotional sense, but it seems he’s got a ways to go.

So because he doesn’t sound as though he means it, it’s difficult for the listener to share in his pain. And because of this there is a certain lack of charm. It’s quite an achievement to be Scottish and not be charming. This is the letdown of the album. For genres that are centuries outdated I can forgive him, for a parrot impression I can pardon, I can even put up with the needless 30 second sound clips. But I’d be more likely to respect a man who is dying to deliver a message, rather than a crooner with a few tricks up his sleeve and a parrot on his shoulder.