Marseille Figs | The Dirty Canon

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Rock: Punk-Pop Avant Garde: Avant-Americana Moods: Mood: Quirky
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The Dirty Canon

by Marseille Figs

Marseille Figs are a law unto themselves. They sound like a runaway train, a barrel of horny monkeys, a funeral band, tumbling tumbleweeds and sweet birdsong.
Genre: Rock: Punk-Pop
Release Date: 

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  Song Share Time Download
1. Low Low Thing
2:35 album only
2. Caesar's Revenge
4:00 album only
3. Honey How You Like Your Eggs
2:48 album only
4. Loser's Delight
4:36 album only
5. Boxcar Charlie
6:34 album only
6. Cradle Song
4:12 album only
7. Eh Joe
4:01 album only
8. Skin & Bones
5:34 album only
9. Where The Night Begins
4:19 album only
10. Dirty Little Monkey
4:01 album only
11. Good Year
4:29 album only
12. Don't Fall Asleep At The Wheel
5:08 album only


Album Notes
The Dirty Canon is the first full length Marseille Figs album, featuring 12 brand new songs.

Produced in Hamburg by Louisiana legend DM Bob and polymath artist and Pogues-founder Jem Finer, and finished in London with Brian O'Shaughnessy (of Screamadelica fame), The Dirty Canon has big booming piledrivers, lost soul singalongs, flophouse ballads, monkey grunts, thunder and lightning.

The Figs began in London in the spring of 1999 as a kind of experiment in ambitious ineptitude and pop form, with the idea of finding a common ground between the ‘amateurism’ of punk, folk and avant-garde music. They played a wide array of odd venues and events, and they spent a long time in the wilderness, writing songs and preaching to the choir.

They have developed a highly idiosyncratic sound, fusing strategies from avant-garde music into old school country, punk, pop, folk and Tin Pan Alley song forms, and emerging with an enormous repertoire of extremely singable songs, boom-booming jump up and down songs and epic, screeching, skronking songs.

Marseille figs are: J. Maizlish, Tom Chant and Dorian McFarland. On The Dirty Canon they play: acoustic guitars, accordions, buzz organ, vocals, handclaps, tenor saxophone, trombone, bass clarinet, flugelhorn, whistle, piano, mouth harp, soprano saxophone, chicken organ, juju guitar, fake tenor guitar, drone, hammond organ, ukelele, monkey mouth, fake trumpet, percussion, electric guitars and chorus vocals. They are joined by London legend John Edwards on double bass.

“The Figs roll. The Figs rock. The Figs take it to the bridge, over the bridge, across the ridge on the other side of the bridge, and onto that ledge on the horizon. You will believe a guitar strumming, sweet talkin’, tub thumping three piece can fly. I wanna be in the Figs.” – Sean O’Hagan



to write a review

N Kramer

chewing with the figs
Sometimes when I'm listening to this music I envision a Parisian cafe, a _very_ hip French woman taking in the Figs and going, "America can't be all that bad."

Swing baby!


Popcorn Crusted Crawfish
With The Dirty Canon, the Marseilles Figs offer proof that the inmates have indeed taken over the asylum -- and bedlam has never sounded so good. It's true, J. Maizlish Mole's wide-ranging vocal stylings may not be to everyone's taste, and the horns (Tom Chant, perhaps?) occasionally trip too far into the avant garde for this reviewer's palate, as on track 5, Boxcar Charlie. However, even the most experimental songs are compulsively, foot-stompingly listenable. The Figs are clearly having a blast, and they've thrown the door wide; it's easy for the listener to join in the fun. My two-year old son threw a hoedown for himself during Honey How You Like Your Eggs, and my 64-year old father was humming Cradle Song (sublime!) several hours after hearing it. A sportswriter once wrote about Bode Miller that his skiing was like a series of near crashes, one after another all the way down the hill, but at the bottom, as likely as not, he was going to end up on the podium. Well, the same could be said for the Figs (with less snow, of course). A madman may be at the wheel, but you know you've been taken for a helluva ride. Some reviewers have suggested that the Figs sound like Nick Cave meets The Pogues, and that may be true, but surely as played by Chico Marx with a mouthful of popcorn crusted crawfish. This is an album that staves off boredom and beats it 'round the head with a flugelhorn and a banjo.