Burning Light

September 11 2007

Expectancy vs. Expectation:
The Musical Play-at-Home Version

Last entry, I ruminated somewhat about the importance of expectancy in one’s spiritual walk, and how that differs from having expectations. Well, it may be a lower plane but that often works for music, too. Today’s selections -- all from newer artists and/or emerging cult darlings -- all have had some manner of expectation placed upon them before I even heard them, from different sources and in noticeably differing degrees. And I daresay the hype hinders rather than helps at times, and creates a hurdle that maybe shouldn’t’ve needed to be cleared, and so far sometimes isn’t.

Yeah, this entry’s gonna be even ramblier than usual.

So let’s work our way…. um, wayward… and with more obscure musical references than you can shake a STICK at, buddies….

The Zincs -- Black Pompadour. Starting with the dark horse of the three: I picked this one up virtually on a whim, as the only thing I previously knew about them was that Thrill Jockey Records was kind enough to throw in a poster for an earlier album when I ordered a crapload of Tom Verlaine stuff from them last year. (I still have the other Verlaine poster they included in my cube, in fact.) So, having little in the way of direction outside of a nagging curiosity, I went for it.

It ain’t life-changing, but if the idea of a flatter and more arcane Nick Cave fronting Mission of Burma (OK, let’s make that analogy slightly less impenetrable and substitute reunion-era Television) sounds appealing, this just might be your thing. Transplanted Brit James Elkington (and what is it with me and transplanted Brits, anyway?), whose songs drive this, says he was listening to a lot of The Smiths when writing this, and I can hear that too in places. Anyway, I’m taking it for what it’s worth and liking it.

It’s worth noting, though, that the songs usually work best when the guitars are working the hardest. Elkington has an interesting turn of phrase here and there, but it’s more interesting than illuminating. (Again, see also Verlaine’s especially later solo stuff.)

I’m not sure where the “Kaspar” framework that begins and ends the album comes in here, unless it’s meant to be some alter-ego for Elkington’s own pilgrimage to the states. And maybe that works: The opener “Head East, Kaspar” (and its closing reprise, just plain "Kaspar") includes the encouragement, “Get ready for profanity and greed.” But again, it’s the guitar that drives this thing, and drive it does, with a strong melody to match. “Coward’s Corral” takes the tempo up a notch, with some nice dissonant if controlled guitar.

“Hamstrung and Juvenile” has a bit of a Doors feel to it, likely the pulsing organ riff that opens it, before giving way to a minor-chorded chorus that opens “Some rays of daylight to radiate this tune," which kind of says it all (if it says anything at all to you, of course). Besides that the guitar work here is again very tasty in a mellow-Verlaine kind of way. “Rice Scars” is a pretty tune that continues to lean on the organ and just the right amount of guitar arpeggios.

“The Mogul’s Wives” is likely the second single here; again, some nice insistently jangly guitar work, especially at the end. Elkington’s vocals are even flatter here than elsewhere, but serve well to deadpan the bridge, “Here are the mogul’s wives/ Authority rests in the nests of these snakes.” As byrnes would say, he sounds like he’d be a lot of fun on camping trips. :P

You know what? I’ve either sold you or haven’t, and in any case I’ve pretty much milked all the suitable adjectives and analogies. Go discover the rest for yrselves, if you choose. The only thing I’ll add is: Despite the fact they’re based in Chicago, an East Coast musical mentality (and a love of things Verlaine in general) definitely helps here. It’s definitely helping me, anyway.

Moving on….

St. Vincent – Marry Me. Let me start with a side note: It’s really humorous how many people have stopped at my cube to stare at this cover – and all she had to do was stare back.

Anyway, when someone’s compared to Kate Bush, plays in Sufjan Stevens’ and The Polyphonic Spree’s touring bands, and opens for Television (hmm, Television sightings in consecutive reviews…. go figure….), that positively screams to me “PROVENANCE!” (OK, it might scream something else to you, but you get the idea.) And this debut album IS the best album I’ve heard by a woman not named Patti Smith in ages; I’m racking my brain to figure out exactly how far back I need to go on this…. ah yes, Miranda Stone’s 7 Deadly Sins, which heck, is already five years old now and sadly, remains her most recent release.)

Anywayer, a little more on the Kate Bush analogy, which doesn’t hold up the entire way but is definitely understandable, by adding an analogy of my own: Who’s seen the Star Trek episode where Kirk gets split into two Kirks, the evil aggressive one and nice but wussy one? (TWO bad overactors? NOOOOO….) Now, imagine that kinda happening to Kate Bush. (Take it easy here, guys -- we’re talking musically.) Anyway, anyone who’s been listening the last 15 years knows that the scary neo-classical half with the killer pipes is Tori Amos (at least before mutating exclusively into psychotic sex thang a few albums in). The quirky, coy-yet-winsome half that was more evident on the earlier pre-Dreaming albums, I now know, grew up to be Annie Clark, i.e., St. Vincent.

Which in itself is encouraging, because aside from suggesting she’s already got a “Suspended in Gaffa” within her it also suggests that she might yet still grow up write her own “Get Out of My House” (EEEYAAAAAAAWWWWW-WUH!!!!!

Although by age 23, I’m pretty sure Kate had already recorded said GOOMH.) I’m thinking Annie might be a little too neurotic and/or nice for that, but hey, keep hope alive.

Anyway, this is still a first album, and thus while it’s got moments it’s got misses too, and a few too many moments that remind me more of Norah Jones than Kate Bush, especially as the album progresses (which ain’t terrible, mind you, but I never need more than one song of that type at any given moment of my life). For what it’s worth, I could also see Ani Di Franco fans embracing this too, given Annie’s DIY approach (i.e., she plays just about everything here) and natural singing voice. Except, of course, that Ani Di Franco usually annoys me but I like this. Usually. I like the potential here, in any case, and that’s far from nothing. Especially as I keep hearing more of it with every listen.

The opening single “Now, Now” wears its Kate on its sleeve, and a very cool sleeve it is, as Annie assures a potential lover who’s apparently mistaking kindness for weakness, “I'm not your mother's favorite dog / I'm not the carpet you walk on … / I'm not the pawn to your king / I'm not your world on a string / I'm not anyone you'll beat / I'm not anything / I'm not anything at all,” then repeatedly demands in a virtual kindergarten chorus, “You don’t mean that, say you’re sorry.” But just when you think she might settle for cute and quirky, out of nowhere comes a big hairy mama-killin’ guitar that more than supports the closing line, “I’ll make you sorry.”

The chipper 6/8 “Jesus Saves, I Spend” likewise finds the ability to balance the bouncy and childlike with the dreamy with the edgy. “Your Lips Are Red” ventures as far into scary-Kateland (and/or a really good early Sinead O’Connor outtake) as this album gets, what with the dissonant piano and loud warbly guitar riff, before giving way to quiet arpeggios and strings, then everything all at once.

After the quieter, sweeter yet still eccentrically ironic pop of the title song -- “Marry me, John, I’ll be so good to you/ You won’t realize I’m gone” -- comes one more venture into Katesville, “Paris Is Burning,” which starts quietly and acoustically (yet with drum machine whirring in the background) then builds into a torch song and blippy insistent electronic circus waltz all at once, justifying and contrasting against the bleak lyrics, “I'm on your side when nobody is, ‘cause nobody is…. We have taken to the streets in open rejoice revolting / We are dancing a black waltz, fair Paris is burning after all.” Heck, I don’t know what I just said either. But it’s still a cool song.

The pace drops from here, with the mellow-jazz-meets-Jiminy-Cricket “All My Stars Aligned.” It’s pleasant, and the ominous strings that enter about two-thirds in help, but it seems that other people like this more than I do. I re-engage at “The Apocalypse Song,” which is definitely reminiscent of that other half-Kate (i.e., Tori) -- “please give me victory / but give me little death” indeed -- starting off off-kilter, segueing into one of the odder bridges you’ll ever hear, before giving way to a “wait a second -- how did this suddenly get gorgeous?” ending (if not for more hints of that odd-but-definitely-memorable bridge).

It gets kind of forgettable after “We Put a Pearl in the Ground,” a pretty minute-long piano intro that leads into the once-more-jazzy “Landmines,” which again is a little too languid and long for my tastes (this is the only song that breaks five minutes), but includes some interesting musical/lyrical imagery. The jazz gets more guitar-based for the “Human Racing,” then brings in a bunch more instrumentation for the closer “What Me Worry” which still doesn’t make it much more compelling (the lyric “love is just a bloodmatch” notwithstanding). Again, the girl can play but it just ain’t my thang.

So, 32 minutes of REALLY good, followed by 13 minutes of so-so (or at least not my style). Not bad at all for a first time out, though. And there’s a LOT to build on. Just bring Coltrane with you next time you wanna do jazz, Annie.

Okkervil River -- The Stage Names. This album has been getting a LOT of accolades recently, and given the critical frothing about the lyrics, and a musical style that could be best described as alt-Americana -- and decidedly alt-er than my newly beloved Kamikaze Hearts -- it really seems I oughta be loving this thing too. But as I say with annoying regularity (just ask him) to my music-loving buddy in the opposite cube who has tried to turn me on to countless indie thangs over the last several months (but curiously hadn’t heard of these guys, even though I think this is album #3 or 4), so far, it’s just… OK.

The ringleader of this particular gang is one Will Sheff, who when he’s worked up often sounds like Kevin Rowland (he of Dexy’s Midnight Runners) trying to sound like Roy Orbison (instead of Van Morrison). Actually, the Rowland analogy holds up pretty well for the songs too -- not that Sheff is quite the next young soul rebel gone Celtic (although maybe gone Tex-Mex), but in terms of the self-conscious cleverness of the lyrics with theoretically just the right amount of cursing inserted to get them across.

And even if the rhyme’s not there, he’ll sure as heck make one. In fact, one could arguably admire the way Scheff willfully force-feeds a lyrical concept or construct into a given song. Example(s):

From “Unless It’s Kicks”: “What gives this mess some grace unless it's kicks, man -- unless it’s fictions… What hits against this chest unless it's a sick man's hand, from some mid-level band?...”

…or “A Hand to Take Hold of the Scene”: “glistening shard / kiss that's as sharp…. light that is fine / cryingest eyes, grace in each face that is making the wastedest, brokenest ones fairly fly, love that is innocent of that old cynical, covetous, cancerous vibe, and a beauty that annihilates all life like it's lived in these nights, holding your hatred tight like a sign that you're right or you're strong. When your doors are shut tight, I will dream you tonight, and my dream will just sweep you along. When all fires are fanned, when we're shucking our plans, when we're too weak to stand…”

… or the otherwise catchy “Plus Ones,” basically a series of musical “numbers” with one added to them, i.e., 8 Chinese brothers, 51 ways to leave yr lover, 100 luftballoons, 9 miles high, blahdeblah.

And speaking of math, YOU do it from here. To put it in a way Mr. Scheff would arguably approve of: Love it and buy it, schlub it and fry it, or shrug and hey, try it.

To me, it sounds a bit too contrived and/or stopping too long to admire its own cleverness and/or just plain trying WAAAAAY too hard. For all I know, though, you might love this thing. I know Andre over at tm3am does (scroll WAY down), as well as any number of other critics.

Me, I may still change my mind, but so far: the effort’s there, and the subject matter’s often there as well. I mean, by all means, give the guy props making the album’s big ending a song about poet John Berryman’s suicide, then closing said song with a reprise of “Sloop John B,” complete with “this is the worst trip I’ve ever been on.”

But on a personal level… well honestly, I’m not finding a personal level with this so far. But if I do, I’ll be sure to come back here and repent next week.

Posted by: burninglight at 15:48 | link | comments

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Posted by: burninglight at 15:48 | link | comments