WORDS Brian Carroll
Rock-and-Roll-Audrey-Hepburn Annie Clark’s fourth album as St. Vincent is a colorful wall of interlocking fuzz guitar bits and analog synths that pays tribute to a diverse number of classic rock performers, but never feels quite like an homage. As a huge Beatles fan newly smitten with David Byrne (work on this album was begun a mere thirty-six hours after returning giddy and recharged from her tour with the ex-Talking Head / Luaka Bop founder), it should surprise no one that Clark highlights a New Wave Funk via ‘Let It Be Naked’ vibe all over this record. However, in what may seem like a cop-out to those just getting warmed up to that idea, Clark then unexpectedly balances the heat these influences put off by frequently dipping them in the
demure blue tones of Kate Bush, creating a steamy song-by-song clash of sexuality that makes
the otherwise constrained record somewhat difficult to pin down at first.
That she dabbles in tightly-wound badassery here was apparent from the moment she released single “Birth In Reverse” two months ago – that song’s sweet breakdown in the bridge remains a cranked-up highlight of the album -- but the alternating back and forth between aggressive house-cleaning music and sensual bath-taking music creates such a chemically volatile atmosphere of grownup “me time” that a new version of the St. Vincent archetype now emerges: the unapproachable mother. Indeed, by including another round of light moral guiding of the sort that appear on all St. Vincent’s albums coupled with the reality that she is getting older and wiser, it is getting harder and harder to avoid feeling like we’re all Clark’s lost children. Not a bad gig, really.
When squeaky clean Clark tries to get naughty through verses like “Oh, what an ordinary day / take out the garbage, masturbate,” it’s easy to feel some sense of embarrassment at the attempt, like the scene in ‘Fargo’ where a furious but hopelessly gentle midwestern couple struggles with all their might to openly curse at William H. Macy’s swindling used car dealer. These frequent bursts of very mild shock seem so passe compared to crass rap lyrics floating around the mind of an adult listener that he/she is left with no choice but to compartmentalize them as immature “teenager bait” in the same way a Green Day or Taylor Swift record may seem rebellious to a naive set of virgin ears. But it’s still difficult to say if the album is any better or worse for including them than if it had taken either a more or less severe tone.
Another juvenile wildcard thrown in the mix is the near-reliance on kitschy synthesizers – mostly from late Beatles standbys the Moog and Mellotron -- to make subtle backdrops for the songs. While perusing this month’s music releases, it is painfully obvious that the music war between anthemic Synthesizer Pop and bewildered Folk revivalism has ended cruelly with the entire music landscape drenched in sawtooth bass leads (and Dubstep in Pop Tart commercials). The public’s desire to accept further iterations of this grimy, simplistic commercialism is at a breaking point, and smart artists like Clark are sitting wisely between worlds with their inclusion of neutral vintage synthesizers until the next big thing (demonstrations of sobering tightness from Jazz, Punk, Bossa Nova, Vintage Country, and Rockabilly that allow for more complex melodies and rhythms yet can still “opt in” for closed, short, synthesizer syncopation like the organ work of Walt Wanderley) takes hold.
But, the one thing that will decide whether or not you’ll fully embrace St. Vincent’s new album is how comfortable you are listening to her worship David Byrne. Dyeing her hair grey to match his is one thing, but the lyrical content of these songs definitely revolves around a harmless, girlish infatuation with someone. In the wake of her recent tour, the impact it had on her, and the steady inclusion of signature Byrne elements that pop up on the record, it is hard not to think while listening that the two were/are romantically involved, with all the attached curiosity and sympathy that follow the exposure of celebrity couples throughout history playing in the listener’s head alongside the music.
Though not perfect, you’d be hard pressed (as I was) to find a better record out this month. Clark may be a goddess trying to dork out a little here, but she’s still a goddess and her love of record crafting prevents any light missteps on this record from spoiling the presentation overall. Her guitar playing, ever approaching outright ferocity, is an absolute joy to listen to as it continues to gain momentum and through her fuzz and octave pedals, it’s difficult to know where the synths begin and the guitars end, often giving the proceedings a wonderful “Mother Popcorn” bass and drum pocket. The record sounds better after each listen, especially on a warm, loud household stereo, and while not the “party record” it was intended to be, it’s perfect for a private, household, “inner-world” party of one. It’s a beefy, voyueristic snapshot through the mind of an enormously talented pop star caught between the tickled excitement of youth, love, sexual fantasy, and impending full-on, world-nurturing adulthood.
David Byrne is pretty awesome, goofy keyboards
are kind of fun, and electric guitars do kick ass, so while not entirely indefensable, the album makes Annie Clark more human and understandable than ever. It’s easier to point out cracks in the seams of the S.S. St. Vincent than it is to do the right thing and wholeheartedly praise her hard work and revere her talent. The album’s strongest suit is its drumming, by Homer Steinweiss of Sharon Jones & The Dap- Kings and McKenzie Smith of Midlake, as they can be thanked for providing the album with a solid, cohesive caption despite Clark’s dueling ambitions of sound. It’s a tad frontloaded, but the songs on the B-Side at least retain sheer musicality and provide elaboration on earlier themes. To give this record a negative review over trifles – especially considering the killer bottom end and solidity it has going on - would be truly criminal, so I won’t do it. She shoots, she scores! It’s good!