Melody has been the poor relation of rock music for many years now, overshadowed by factors more easily conjured up by smoke and mirrors like image, attitude and sheer visceral impact. In the parlance of PR (and, frankly, a great deal of rock journalism), “melodic” has become little more than a synonym for “easy on the ears.” On closer inspection, the melodies promised tend to be scrawny, stunted things, short phrases pasted over repeating chord progressions and propped up with the odd harmony. Over the course of a career now stretching back over 20 years, Louis Philippe has proven himself one of the few remaining masters of this particular art. Not hooks, not catchy tunes, but elegant, richly satisfying constructions that evolve in constantly surprising ways without ever succumbing to mere complexity for its own sake. (For all its sophistication, Philippe’s is music aimed equally at both head and heart). In the early days, he was content to put this formidable capacity at the service of songs that rarely strayed far from the models laid down by the ’60s greatest melodists — Brian Wilson, Bacharach, McCartney — though even then an astute ear would have detected traces of Ravel and Duke Ellington. With An Unknown Spring, however, Philippe has set his gaze on an altogether broader vista. The result is an album of pure melody, melody untrammeled and unconfined by the conventions of what passes for modern popular music, melody that unfurls gracefully, languorously and then, when you think it can’t help but fold in on itself, unfurls a little more.
On first hearing, this can be somewhat daunting. Not because An Unknown Spring can in any way be described as a tough listen, but because our cosseted ears simply aren’t used to processing melodies that don’t ingratiate themselves by means of repetition or overfamiliar resolutions. A delectable turn of phrase that might pass for a chorus or a hook drifts past and you wait confidently for a reassuring reprise. But it never comes: instead, the melody just carries on evolving. Only on repeated listening does the architecture of Philippe’s songs become apparent, and only then can you begin to marvel at its intricate beauty. At 38 minutes this is a relatively short album, many of whose tracks last under three minutes, some under two. Yet a song like “Born Beautiful,” for instance, takes the whole pocket symphony concept to new levels, accommodating a gorgeous melody that leads to a brief “Bicycle Rider”-style passage for tack piano, which in turn morphs into a swirling cloud of vocal harmony, and all in 148 seconds. “Miss Lake” adopts a different approach, spinning out a single melody line through thickets of chords and harmony that would leave most pop composers gasping in wonderment (and no little envy). Only “Fallen Snow” with its wonky bossa nova rhythms, harpsichord riff and big fat bass is there to remind us that Philippe can still whip up the kind of creamy pop confection with which he and the rest of the el roster enlivened the late ’80s. As you’d expect from an arranger of Philippe’s calibre — just ask the Clientele — the 16 songs of An Unknown Spring come cloaked in delicate hues of strings, piano, acoustic guitars, melodica, and the subtlest of percussion. And though the complete absence of drums might further fuel your suspicion that this belongs more to the realm of classical music than rock, only a magical 90-second rendering of Ravel’s “Toi Le Coeur de la Rose” — on which a choir of Philippe’s is augmented by the Norwegian singer Mari Persen — suggests a sensibility that’s anything other than contemporary. Without doubt, An Unknown Spring is the most uncompromising album of Philippe’s career. Whereas this is a term that usually evokes visions of tuneless self-flagellation, however, here it means only that Philippe — in common with such kindred spirits as Joanna Newsom and Sufjan Stevens — has decided that life is just too short to carry on pandering to a form that actively rewards formulaic underachievement. The only danger is that, by comparison, the next album you buy is likely to sound ever so flabby and just a tiny bit dull. – Christopher Evans