THE
INDEPENDENT- May 1999
The English songwriter's third album sees him veer down the alt.country
road (with help from two members of Son Volt). If this collection doesn't
get him widespread recognition, then the world's an ugly place. A true
and beautiful gem.
Tim Perry
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MUSIC
WEEK - May 1999
After several low-key but well received dates around London, Peter
Bruntnell finally gets around to releasing this fine collection of
songs. With more than a trace of Jimmy Webb and Glen Campbell evident,
this album stakes its place in the countrified rock canon, and with
rocking tracks such as 'By The Time My Head Gets To Phoenix' and 'NFB',
it should not be much longer befor Bruntnell finds a wider audience.
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TNT - May 1999
Imagine a thrashier Townes Van Zandt (Forgiven) or a mellower Big
Star (Played Out), and you'd be pretty close to what Bruntnell does.
Many are doing the country-rocking thing right now, granted, but Bruntnell
has been doing it longer than most. He also does it better. Of course,
if Bruntnell were American, he'd be fawned over in Mojo as the second
coming of Gram Parsons. He's not: he's from South London, which explains
why you haven't heard of him. Nonetheless, following his first two
efforts (Cannibal and Camelot In Smithereens) this is another excellent
album. Normal for Bruntnell in fact.
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BBM
- June 1999
Peter Bruntnell has missed his vocation. It's the voice, you see,
he would have an exemplary bed-side manner. It's a smoky Nick Drake
meets a dusty Jeff Buckley. It's a sweet syrup that would undoubtedly
help the medicine go down. That's not to say the prescription on offer
leaves a bad taste or makes for uncomfortable digestion. His is good
old fashioned country with little in the way of Nineties embellishments.
When I say old fashioned, I don't mean in a simple bluegrass / Appalachian
/ BR549 type of way, rather in a Glen Campbell/Kris Kristofferson
manner - with just enough Gram Parsons twist to avoid any sniggering
behind palms. It would be disingenous to point to vague Eagles-like-singalongs
and besides, from the Jimmy Webb hounoring pastiche of 'By The Time
My Head Gets To Phoenix' to the pure slice of reverential nostalgia
that is 'NFB', Bruntnell has very obviously elected to return to the
time when you woke in the morning and put on your cleanest, dirty
shirt, when you rode steers and kept your women weeping and wondering
where you had gone. A man you don't meet everyday.
Frank Spooner
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NME
- June 1999
The title of London-based singer-songwriter Peter Bruntnell'sthird
album derives from the medical shorthand 'NFB' alledgedly employed
by the doctors of Bridgewater, Somerset, in mitigation for the wayward
behaviour of his scrumpyfield charges. Bruntnell presumably empathises
with these sozzled souls. His opening line on opening song 'Handful
of Stars' observes, "Well you headed for another round / 'Cos
I can't see you coming down", and throughout 'Normal For Bridgewater'
we see life refracted through the susceptible lens of a glass, for
better and worse, drunk and drunker. Whatever sauce Bruntnell was
putting on his chips this time seems to have sharpened his muse, however,
for here is a far more satisfying distillation of pop-smart country-flecked
melancholia than encountered on previous outings, which felt rather
too well manicured to convince. Like a diabolic pact between Uncle
Tupelo and The Eagles. 'NFB' is fired by an inner roar that seems
to propel the music beyond its ostensibly prosaic concerns. The piledriven
rocker 'Forgiven' packs a fierce existential punch, thanks to Bruntnell's
epic lyrical gaze - '"Back in the days when the world was flat
/ Everybone dreamed of wings" - and his band's uninhibited rustbelt
flay. The teary title track instructively features Son Volt's pedal
steel and fiddle players, while none other than Canadian behemoth
Randy Bachman co-authors 'Outlaw'. There is even, magnificently enough,
a song titled 'By The Time My Head Gets To Phoenix'. Above all, it's
Peter Bruntnell's voice, stained by experience, wounded but defiant,
which time and again transports the listener to a town where the bars
never close and the jukebox plays only his songs. It isn't normal
in the slightest.
Keith Cameron
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TIME
OUT - July 1999
Jeez, those Jayhawks sure did open up the floodgates. This is yet
another hugely accomplished album of finely honed, country rockin'
fare. Twelve songs that chug softly, limber lithely and hunker on
down with nary a stumble and an always elegant and savvied sense of
old fashioned melody. Archetypally American music it may be, but,
along with the likes of Grand Drive and Michael Weston King's Good
Sons, non-Americans are becoming increasing adept at messing with
the rationale, and coming-up trumps. Bruntnell hails from South London,
and this is his third album. The previous two evidenced significant
potential and a notable talent. This latest confirms that impression
in spades. With a voice that gently aches and yearns, an intelligent
musical sensibility and a traditionally styled take on deceptively
laid-back songcraft, Bruntnell has produced a richly impressive work
that fits easily and ieffortlessly into the whole contemporary alt
country scene.
Ross Fortune
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MOJO - July 1999
Recorded in Boston, but named after Bridgewater, Somerset and the
"small-town malaise" (it says here) and "cider-fuelled
fall-out that sometimes descends on the town", these excellent
songs - light of touch, often dark of lyric - seem to be about floating,
trying to make the long journey home, whether in an aeroplane ('By
The Time My Head Gets To Phoenix') or in an alcoholic haze (lovely
opener 'Handful of Stars'; Bruntnell's voice poignant, slightly ragged,
the guitar and harmonies just right). "I'm coming back,"
he sings in 'Cosmea', weary but hopeful, the sawing fiddle, banjo
and gentle gospel sway forming a sepia photograph of a New England
country church; I defy anyone not to be moved. Superb songwriting,
from 'Played Out' and the solid country rock of 'Lay Down This Curse',
to the sweet sentiments and peaceful back- porch harmonies of 'Outlaw'.
Americana album of the month.
Sylvie Simmons
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UNCUT - August 1999
George Howard's Boston-based Slow River label has become one of the
most consistent purveyors of rootsy Americana, but it was an astute
move to make Peter Bruntnell their first British signing. This is
the third album by the 35 year-old whose life-changing experience
was hearing Neil Young's After The Goldrush. He's a gifted songwriter
with a lonesome crack in his voice but this is also a very musical
record, from the shit-kicking 'You Won't Find Me' and the power-pop
chords of 'Forgiven' to the Appalachian charm of 'Cosmea' and the
irresistable 'By The Time My Head Gets To Phoenix', which sounds like
The Eagles before they lost it in the coke blizzards of Hotel California.
The entire record is stuffed with beguiling delights.
Nigel Williamson
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ROCK 'N' REEL - August 1999
Album number three from the critically acclaimed yet commercially
ignored Mr. Bruntnell sees a label shift, from the apparently directionless
Almo Sounds to the - hopefully - sympathetic Boston-based Slow River,
through Rykodisc. Maybe this'll give him the push needed to see him
become the established singer-songwriter he so deserves to be. This
time around, Bruntnell borrowed the services of two members of Jay
Farrar's Son Volt, and it is certainly telling. A number of tracks
here have the trademark Son Volt squall, with whizzkid guitarist James
Walbourne making his presence truly felt via some clanking guitar
tomfoolery on the country-rocking 'You Won't Find Me' and the grunge-u-
like of 'Forgiven'. The more trad side of country gets a bit of an
airing on the title track and 'Cosmea', but the real winner here is
the West Coast power-pop of 'By The Time My Head Gets To Phoenix',
which sails on a sea of Hammond organ, straight to the land of Teenage
Fanclub and Big Star. At last his ship seems to be coming in. Peter
Bruntnell is the king of alt country UK.
Gerry Ranson
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ROLLING STONE.COM
This marvelous pop-based record with alt-country edges now reveals
one of England's biggest kept musical secrets to U.S. audiences. Normal
is anything but.
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ASSOCIATED PRESS
One of the better Americana albums of the year. Frequently brilliant.
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THE ONION
Will the year's best alt-country album come from a South Londoner?
It's too early in the year to make any definitive statements, but
Peter Bruntnell makes a strong bid?.He may have come by it by way
of the Thames rather than the Mississippi, but Bruntnell's modern
country sound is as unaffected as they come.
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ST. PAUL PIONNER PRESS
Anyone who caught Bruntnell opening for Son Volt at First Avenue last
fall was sufficiently wowed by his songs and stage presence, but this
stunner exceeds even those high expectations.
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AMAZON.COM
What in the name of baseball and apple pie does a South London lad
know about Americana music anyway? Apparently plenty, as is evident
on the third album by singer-songwriter Peter Bruntnell, who could
offer a hint or two to American artists looking to make a splash in
the same, seemingly watered-down genre.
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RADIO DIGEST.COM
Pick of the week. Bruntnell was one of the artists who generated the
most excitement among those who heard him at SXSW. His album wasn't
due for three months at that point, but now that it's here, it's clear
the buzz was well-deserved. Bruntnell has released one of the most
accomplished Americana albums of the year?
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ROCKZINES.COM
Not just a few, not half, and not most, but all of these twelve songs
are jewels?Peter Bruntnell is the current reigning king of alt-country.
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