CD of the Week: Paul Buchanan - Mid Air

THE Proclaimers recently told The Scotsman that they have always been attracted to writing the same kind of song, one which embodies a poetic and melodic simplicity, because that way lies honesty and integrity.

Paul Buchanan: Mid Air

Newsroom Records, £11.99

Rating: ***

Paul Buchanan, one of their few peers in Scottish songwriting, might go further and say that he has spent a career trying to perfect the same song. The abiding image of the Blue Nile frontman is of a meticulous craftsman, producing then scrapping songs, tweaking and re-tweaking, sweating over soundscapes in a bid to surpass the early benchmarks of A Walk Across The Rooftops and Hats, albums which have acquired an almost sacred reputation over the years.

So when Buchanan admits that the creation of his debut solo album kept him awake at night, it is tempting to picture him labouring under the weight of his own exacting standards, never mind the expectations of rabid Blue Nile fans who, let’s face it, have hardly been overburdened with fresh material down the decades.

In fact, the results sound anything but laboured. Although Buchanan appears, as he always does, to be shouldering some exquisite emotional burden, the 14 tracks on Mid Air are wispy, crepuscular sketches which emerged unwittingly while Buchanan was writing for Shirley Manson’s (unreleased) solo album.

He has described the album as a “recordette” and the press release refers to it as a collection of “miniatures”. Sure enough, in the respect that the songs are short, almost exclusively under three minutes long, and capture a mood or paint a picture in a few brushstrokes, while the detail is largely left to the imagination.

Though he consulted with his Blue Nile cohort Robert Bell, Mid Air is an avowedly solo effort, written, performed and produced solely by Buchanan. Comprising piano or keyboard and hushed vocals, with the occasional light nuance of orchestration such as pizzicato strings or the subtle swell of brass, it sounds like a work he created by sneaking into the studio at night when everyone had gone home and he could indulge his hangdog tendencies in peace and solitude.

Actually, much of the album was recorded in the comfort of his own home and it sounds suitably intimate and mature, not unlike Kate Bush’s 50 Words For Snow in its intent to stick to its guns. In place of the sensuality and eccentricity which Bush brings to her creation, Mid Air is infused with an elegiac quality. The death of a close friend overshadowed the making of the album – not to mention the long, slow severance of the band he formed with friends at university. But Mid Air makes for a soothing catharsis.

The opening, title track mixes the mundane – “the button on your collar, the colour of your hair” – with the romantic – “the girl I want to marry upon the high trapeze” and sets the unwavering musical tone for the next 30 or so minutes. Crumpled lullaby Half The World is emblematic of the album’s mix of whimsy and woe (“half the world has gone to sleep, half the world is on its knees”), while Newsroom is even more sombre in its outlook: “Last out the newsroom, please put the lights out, there’s no-one left alive”. The urban romanticism of Cars In The Garden borders on the twee but it’s just enigmatic enough to keep you guessing as to its intent.

In contrast to some of the more impressionistic tracks on the album, Wedding Party is a beguiling piece of economical storytelling, a supershort story, a sad storyboard, while Tuesday is a melancholy snapshot of a relationship which fades out unresolved. Likewise, the domestic lament Two Children, where the opening line – “now we have two children” – seems to impart much more than the given information, provides plenty of space for the listener to conjure with. In a different context, this should be a picture of contentment but there are “storm clouds above our garden” and Buchanan sounds utterly weary and worn.

The one instrumental, Fin De Siecle, is more lushly arranged, and possibly has a lucrative future soundtracking the sad montage at the end of some American TV drama. The closing track After Dark is positively epic at four minutes long and feels more formed than some of the mercurial pieces which precede it. You can imagine Tony Bennett having a go at its torch-song sentiments.

But not every track is either as captivating as Two Children or as satisfying as After Dark. Even with such a brief running time, the album’s lack of dynamics starts to wear after a while and, unless you are in the mood for a wallow yourself, the relentlessly downbeat tone risks becoming ponderous.