Ian Prowse – No Names Review 

The Scouse [Bruce] Springsteen? You can’t make claims like that without having either an abundance of confidence or a disconnect from the real world. The Brummie [Bob] Dylan and the Geordie [Janis] Joplin. These are just words in an order which may look sensible but, in practice, are beyond the pale. But Ian Prowse has connections with The Boss through collaborator Elvis Costello, the fellow Liverpudlian who appears on No Names, the latest album from the Pele frontman. Fair play to Prowse, No Names does open with Springsteen-like charm and he’s clearly moved by the Streets of Minneapolis songwriter’s dedication to righteousness and truth. Twinkling little instrumentals, a flicker of The Boss gliding through after the string section swell comes to an end. But, and this is the crucial part of Prowse’s style, it goes beyond repetition of what came before. There is a rock and roll fundamental within it, sure, but to compare him to Springsteen is to compare Paul Weller to Richard Hawley. Great voices, great instrumentalists and exceptional songwriters, but in their own way. Prowse is exceptional in his own way, and No Names show that.  

His political stance is his pride and place here. To the Letter brings a sweet swell of instrumentals backing a call to everyone from Mick Lynch to Fidel Castro. No Names relies on that clear route through the political system. Keynote Speech is a wonderful experience, that saxophone solo linking up well with what Clarence Thomas brought to Springsteen’s stage presence and studio sound. But the comparisons don’t, for Prowse, stop there. Enough is enough is a simple but true sentiment that Springsteen has similarly and recently worked with, and it’s a delight to hear. Sometimes the obvious needs speaking into power, and that is what Prowse does successfully across No Names. The Costello-featuring The Cleaner is a tremendous high point. His legacy is clear, and the essential spirit he adds to this Prowse track hauls it into classic territory. Those string sections would make Jeff Lynne blush. Prowse makes his political aim true and does so with some excellent, biting commentaries.  

No Names goes beyond the political spectrum by paying tribute to the faceless and nameless bodies whose work goes uncredited or unnoticed. Without those we could not live as we currently do, that is the point Prowse correctly makes. Prowse calls on people to stand firm in the face of political unrest, to use their voice as a tool for change. It comes out clearest of all on Stand Your Ground. To Prowse’s credit, there’s hardly anyone who can do so now. He lives in a hopeful time where the voice and memories are the most important things you can hold onto. That may still be true, but there’s a disconnect between art and the real world now that few are bridging. There’s a deep, rooted hate that few are acknowledging because there’s no way to write about the ugly, fractured, and ungovernable state. We then have soft escapism efforts like this instead, and while it works and Prowse pulls no punches, there is a sense of complete collapse in place.  

What are we to do but repeat the same notions as before? Nothing ever happens. There’s a defeatism that doesn’t affect No Names, and it’s charming to hear. There is hope worth hearing all the same, and we just have to let Prowse and his fine songwriting skills penetrate. Mo’s Wheel and Black Messiah do well to rally, to serve that outcry. There’s a lion inside of us all, Prowse argues. It’s hard not to be convinced by his stance on this. It’s as honest as you’d want from a singer-songwriter with decades of experience backing him. A strong latest effort is what No Names is, a resounding piece of work. Songwriters should not be expected to solve our problems or put the world to rights, but they’ve been doing it for decades, and Prowse picks up the torch to continue a longstanding tradition. No Names is filled with excellent spots of work, some career-best examples of why Prowse has lasted as long as he has in a harsh industry and a harsher world.