Britt Daniel is one sneaky bastard. The singer-songwriter and nucleus of Austin-based indie rockers Spoon put his band on the map in 2002 by paring down his songs to their absolute essence; “Kill The Moonlight” was almost eerily spare and so subtly effective that it swept right by me the first few times I listened to it. Top 20 on that year’s Pazz & Jop poll (The Village Voice’s near-definitive survey of rockcrits), it left me wondering at first what all the fuss was about. One by one, however, the tracks sunk in, making their indelible impression with a wash of two-fingered keyboard hooks here, a splash of tambourine and twelve string there, and Daniel’s inimitable tenor whisper all over. Many heard shades of Elvis Costello, but the Velvet Underground’s equally spare and sneakily effective self-titled1969 album is as good a reference point as any.
This time around, the Elvis Costello comparisons might be closer to the point. Less than a minute into “Gimme Fiction,” the band’s new album, Daniel’s anger is already palpable; pounding drums and slashing, angular guitar beneath him, he tosses off lyrics about “the beast and dragon adored,” whatever that might mean, although given the record’s title I suspect he may be harping on our current administration. By the next track he’s already paranoid enough to remark, “You think things are straight but they’re not what they seem” and I’m reminded of Mr. Costello’s 1979 album “Armed Forces.” That record’s original title was “Emotional Fascism,” the deceptively straightforward pop songs contained therein under-girded by political anxieties and fears about empire. Unlike Costello, Britt Daniel rarely gives way to barefaced rage; his songs may be elliptical in making their point, but you feel whatever it is he’s trying to put across.
“Gimme Fiction” is a more heavy-handed record than “Kill The Moonlight,” both sonically and thematically. Almost every track features Daniel’s monomaniacal piano bashing front and center, the melodies so stark and aggressively limned-out that they take a few listens to sink in. Sink in they do, however, and when the band gives way to pop buoyance halfway through, from “Sister Jack” onward (note the Velvets allusion), the music is its own reward. Daniel spent some time on the last record musing about “Small Stakes,” but the discreet pleasures and subtle pathos of “Gimme Fiction” deserve no small praise.
Pt. II
This is the last column I’ll ever write at Wesleyan. That being the case, I thought I should recommend some of the best records released while I attended this school (“Kill The Moonlight” is one, though I discussed that above). My list is by no means comprehensive, but it’s sort of an aural history of my experience here, if you will. To wit:
The Strokes, “Is This It” (RCA, 2001)
Julian Casablancas’ fashion-rock aloofness isn’t for everyone, and especially in the wake of the events that transpired around the record’s release it’s no wonder the group’s brand of hedonism failed to take this country by storm. But as pure sound it’s pretty terrific. It remains to be seen whether they can make something this sexy and consistent again.
De La Soul, “AOI: Bionix” (Tommy Boy, 2001)
The first installment of De La’s “Art Official Intellegence,” which was supposed to be a trilogy (part three remains at large) went top ten, and after this follow-up failed to clear the top 100 it fell quickly out of print. It’s well worth seeking out; though the record falls flat in the final third, the preceding tracks are among the most soulful, satisfying work they’ve ever done, Prince Paul years included. They find a way for hip-hop to age gracefully, no mean feat, and the dazzling “Simply” should have been a summer smash.
The Libertines, “Up The Bracket” (Rough Trade, 2003)
Recent reports of this band’s demise are a damn shame because their debut contains some of the toughest, most cathartic, most genuinely alive rock and roll of the past couple decades. Carl Barat provides some shit-kicking refrains, but kamikaze Pete Doherty is the real find, a dissolute, uncommonly sharp lout who coughs up blood on “Horrorshow” before the fuzz catches up with him on the title track. He’s got one foot in the grave and his head in the clouds and you can’t help but love him even though you know he’s doomed. He will be missed.
Grandaddy, “Sumday” (V2, 2003)
Jason Lytle and his space-cowboy compadres have a thing for spacious, graceful pop in the mold of Radiohead and The Flaming Lips, only without the former’s pretension and the latter’s preciousness. On their third record they’ve come up with their finest songs to date, and Lytle remains a humorous humanist nonpareil.
Wilco, “A Ghost Is Born” (Nonesuch, 2004)
Almost the masterwork that their last was supposed to be. General critical response indicated widespread confusion, but I say focus on the organic whole even if it means skipping over the ten minutes of machine whirr on “Less Than You Think,” the only unqualified moment of self-indulgence. Jeff Tweedy’s confusion doesn’t accommodate rational thought, so the abstruse lyrics and elliptical structures lead some to label him a pretentious ass. I think the band’s unhinged approach and the raw production finally give Tweedy’s songs room to breathe. This is the record I always felt Wilco had it in them to make. Best album of 2004.
Brian Wilson, “SmiLE” (Nonesuch, 2004)
Strange that a dinky little label like Nonesuch should put out two essential purchases in the space of a couple months, but in their pursuit of the NPR demographic they did just that. Don’t let the presupposed audience steer you away, however; the resurrection of the troubled Beach Boys leader’s long-lost magnum opus, left for dead in 1967 and pieced together by a couple sympathetic bandmates along with the man himself nearly four decades later, is some kind of miracle. If it’s not quite “Pet Sounds” it’s still ahead of any other Beach Boys LP, not to mention “Sgt. Pepper” (there, I said it). It’s the worst kind of cliché to say they don’t make records like this anymore, but in this instance the adage happens to be true. And nobody other than Wilson could have made a record like this back then, either. A treasure.
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