Raise your hands if you've ever spent time as a teenager, on the brink of stepping out into the world at large, uncertain of what awaits you. Keep those hands up if you've ever questioned your place in that world, not just on a personal level, but if you've ever wondered what you can do to affect what's around you. Have you ever wondered what mark you'll leave behind? Hands still up? Then you may have just found your album of the year in the shape of Get Cape. Wear Cape. Fly's The Chronicles of a Bohemian Teenager.
Sam Duckworth, apart from having a penchant for distracting names and titles (see "If I had ã30 for Every Song Title I'd be 30 Short of Getting Out of this Mess"), knows what it's like to question the future, as well as the environment which makes it up, and he presents his musings on what it's like to be said Bohemian teenager to a backdrop of melodic, electronica-tinged folk. An obvious point of comparison would be Bright Eyes' Digital Ash in a Digital Urn meets Billy Bragg's political folk stylings. Apart form sharing a similar South End accent with the esteemed left-wing folk artist (although, with a soaring and powerful voice, hinting at his punk/hardcore past), he also has a keen focus on trying to set right the world's wrongs. On the eponymous "Get Cape. Wear Cape. Fly," he is a far more vocal advocate of fair trade than Chris Martin could have ever hoped to be when decided to scribble on his hands in marker pen, accusing "you decide it's worth having their blood on your hands just to wear the latest Nike". Bob Geldof, with his patronizing "there'll be no snow in Africa" platitudes, he's not. Thank fucking goodness, because the world has had its fair share of sanctimonious pricks.
On "Glasshouses," the issue of racism is discussed to an oddly jubilant and brassy track, whilst "Whitewash is Brainwash" is a snarling, if tuneful, rebuttal against commercialization, homogenization and errââ¬Â¦ Ikea, among others. However, this album is as much about personal politics as it is the global variety; rebuking an absent lover on "War of the Worlds", reminiscing about nights spent on people's floors and the pitfalls of a traveling musician on the exemplary two title tracks "The Chronicles of a Bohemian Teenager (Part One/Part Two)".
What you have here is essentially a victory of substance over style, of honesty over empty posturing, of Sam Duckworth over the big, bad world. Fantastic. "I want to be something that's of worth, you see?" he implores us. Good luck with that one, mate, you're well on your way.
