Max And His Tunes: A Wild Ride Through Stage, Screen, Blues, and Jazz
Alright, let’s get one thing straight—Max Wall wasn’t screwing around when he dropped Max And His Tunes back in 2005. This UK-born gem from Cylidisc is like a musical time machine that takes you everywhere at once: smoky jazz clubs, old-school cinema scores, and bluesy back alleys where the air smells like regret and cheap whiskey. It's messy, raw, and unapologetically alive.
First off, can we talk about “Some Other Bird Whistled A Tune”? Holy crap, this track hits like a freight train with feathers. The melody sneaks up on you, all soft and innocent, but then BAM—it slaps you across the face with its sheer audacity. You don’t just hear it; you feel it. Like someone whispering secrets into your ear while tapping their foot too hard on the floorboards. That tune sticks to your brain like gum under a table—you’ll be humming it for days whether you want to or not.
Then there’s “My Little Lady And Me (False Start).” Man, this one feels like eavesdropping on an argument between lovers who are both too stubborn to back down. The false start in the title ain’t lying—this thing stumbles out of the gate like a drunk trying to find his keys, but somehow it works. By the time the vocals kick in, you’re already hooked. It’s got sass, grit, and enough attitude to fill a room twice its size. If songs could fight, this would leave bruises.
The rest of the album? Equally bonkers. Tracks like “Button Up Your Shoes And Dance” and “Ole Buttermilk Sky” bounce between playful and downright moody, keeping you guessing what’s coming next. And holy hell, does Max ever lose steam? Nope. Not even close. From “Time Marches On, I Ain’t Got Nobody” to “Play, Fiddle, Play,” every damn song has personality dripping out of it like sweat on a summer day.
But here’s the kicker—the guy throws in a medley near the end (“I’ll Never Be The Same / Sweet Sue / Some Of These Days”) that feels like flipping channels on an old TV set. One second you’re watching a black-and-white movie, the next you’re stuck in some honky-tonk dive bar. It shouldn’t work, but it does. Beautifully.
So yeah, Max And His Tunes isn’t perfect. Hell, it doesn’t even try to be. But that’s why it works so damn well. This album reminds you that music doesn’t need to follow rules to knock your socks off. Honestly, if Max Wall walked into my living room right now, I’d probably hug him and ask how the hell he pulled this off without losing his mind.
And now for the unexpected remark: Listening to this record makes me wonder if Max secretly hated clocks. Because time stops when you hit play.
