The Cinematic Orchestra - Man With A Movie Camera (2LP) - 20th Anniversary Ashen/Pewter Vinyl

Some albums feel like they were always meant for wax, and The Cinematic Orchestra’s Man With A Movie Camera is one of them. Released by Ninja Tune in 2003, it’s a studio recording of the score the group wrote for Dziga Vertov’s 1929 silent film, first performed live for a special screening in Porto in 2001. That origin story matters, because you can hear the flicker of the projector in the pacing. Scenes bloom and recede. Cuts arrive with a drummer’s intuition rather than a programmer’s grid.

Jason Swinscoe’s ensemble has always blurred lines between jazz, modern classical, and downtempo, but this record tightens the focus. It’s leaner than Every Day, more cinematic than Motion, and somehow more human than either. Double bass, brushed drums, piano and Rhodes, saxophone that breathes rather than blares. The band trusts space. Phil France’s bass outlines the frame, Luke Flowers’ cymbals whisper in the corners, and the horns colour between. You don’t need the film rolling to follow the narrative. The storytelling is in the tempo changes, in the way a theme returns a shade darker, in the hush before the strings drop back in.

The title track still gives me that shiver that great opening scenes do. It creeps in with a measured pulse, then gathers momentum until the rhythm section is pushing like a streetcar up a hill. When the sax rises over it, there’s a sense of vastness that never tips into bombast. The other anchor is The Awakening of a Woman (Burnout), which moves from quiet, almost documentary detail to something close to rapture. It is patient, then generous, and it rewards patience with a lift that feels earned. Even on a small system the dynamics feel alive, but this is a different beast entirely through speakers with some air around them.

Part of the charm lies in how the group recycles its own DNA. Themes you might recognise from earlier work are refitted here to serve Vertov’s pacing. Motifs are stretched, re-voiced, or tucked into new harmonic settings, so the score feels both familiar and newly sharpened. The overdubs are tasteful, the sampling more about texture than quotation, and the live rhythm takes the lead. It is easy to forget how rare that was in the early 2000s, when so much so-called cinematic trip hop relied on cut-and-paste rather than a band breathing the same room air.

Hearing this on The Cinematic Orchestra vinyl release adds another layer. The mix opens up, the cymbal wash feels more natural, and the low end carries weight without clouding the piano. If you have been hunting for Man With A Movie Camera vinyl, keep an eye on reputable pressings from Ninja Tune. They’re usually clean, with enough headroom to capture the quiet-to-loud arcs that make this record sing. I stumbled on my copy after a long Saturday flip at a Melbourne record store, the kind of find that makes you text three mates before you even reach the counter. For those who prefer to buy The Cinematic Orchestra records online, it sits alongside the must-haves. If you’re building a shelf of The Cinematic Orchestra albums on vinyl, this belongs right next to Every Day, not as an adjunct but as a pillar.

The cultural fit with Vertov’s film is striking. The score mirrors the movie’s celebration of everyday labour and motion, its fascination with machines and crowds, its playfulness and its grit. You can sense the band responding to montage theory in musical form. A motif will be introduced cleanly, then recontextualised by rhythm, then offset by a counter-line, so you end up with something that feels like sound editing across time. Even if you’ve never sat through the 1929 original, the album stands as a story about cities waking, working, and drifting into night.

It is also a record that invites repeat visits. Put it on over coffee and it glides. Turn it up after dark and the drum accents snap. There are no showy solos for the sake of it, just choices that serve mood and momentum. That discipline is why it has aged so well, and why it keeps turning up in staff picks and recommendation piles across vinyl records Australia. It is music made by players listening hard to each other, built for a listener who wants to sink in.

If you’re new to the band, start here or with Every Day, then circle back to Motion. If you already know the catalogue, this one still surprises. It is a love letter to film language written in melody and groove, and it feels even better on a turntable.