FYI

Comment moderation has now been turned on.

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~Austin

Old Music: Natalie Merchant's Ophelia (1998)

Ok, let's just get this out of the way right now: I love Natalie Merchant. And if you had guessed that I'm on a NatMer (the nickname I've lovingly given her — only because she's earned it!) kick lately, you'd be absolutely correct.

Leave Your Sleep has left me completely mesmerized.

And because of that, I'm (perhaps a bit obsessively) going back through her catalogue and reassessing why I loved her in the first place.

Well, let's get to the heart of the matter here: way back in high school, I had girl friend (note: not "my" "girlfriend" — though I'm sure I would have liked for that to have happened at the time; and undoubtedly it has more than a little to do with my involvement with this album in the first place) who was rather keen on this album. I liked and respected her enough to the point that I would ditch everything else I was into at the time —that would be OutKast and Blackstar, in case you were wondering— to check an album that not only wasn't even on my radar; it was the sort of thing I actively avoided.

And, yeah, I hated it.

But why?

I had fallen neither in nor out of love... yet.

Besides the fact that it was nothing musically like anything else I was into at the time, there was nothing in the subject matter for me to grasp onto.

Why all the gloom? Why all the downtrodden, sadbastard moods? Why the general Eeyore-like nature of the whole thing?

It depressed the hell out of me, honestly.

I traded it in when that particular acquaintance exited my sphere of association, bought up all the latest indie hip hop 12" singles and I never looked back.

Of course.

When you're 17, this just isn't the sort of music that's rewarding; not to mention, sounds 'cool' coming out of your car in the parking lot before first period.

So, a year or so back when I was in the middle of a serious jangle pop kick, 10,000 Maniacs fell onto my radar. They made some seriously great music, but even through my re-evaluation of a band that I skipped over, one thing stood out to me above everything else, regardless of how much I enjoyed the music: that voice.

Yes, she was —and still is— awesome. Right up there with Morrissey, Otis Redding and Maxwell.

Truly, Natalie Merchant is one of my favorite vocalists ever.

And her performance on Ophelia is what I base a lot of that on.

But let's just get this out there right now: Ophelia is a bummer of an album. If you actually sit and listen to the words, it's downright gloomy. In retrospect, I find it a bit odd that the album is Natalie's most introspective and confrontationally personal that preceded a group of no less heartfelt works that were noticeably more about genre exercising than they were about the songwriter's experience.

She dodges the issue right away with the title track, supposing that the group of personal recollections that follows is nothing more than the memories of characters, but the performances are too specific, too passionate for any astute listener to fall for it.

No, I think, indeed, these are, for better or for worse, the pages of Natalie Merchant's diary being put into song form.

And I say 'for better or for worse' because not everything here is a wonderfully pretty little jangle floatabout; like she's just a Maniac forever. Nope. If Tigerlily implied a bit more of a serious slant and a matured melancholy approach to her music, Ophelia is that approach and philosophy taken to its absolute extreme.

Sure, 'Kind and Generous' was a huge hit. And it's definitely a rather jumpy little pop tune that supposes a lighthearted mood, but one listen to the lyrics and it's obviously that it's about a very intense breakup.

For all its minor keys and dissonant, sad turns, Ophelia has a quality of triumph to it. An aspect of jubilation amongst the emotional chaos. To put it simply: Ophelia is the ultimate breakup album.

Just have a look at the lyrics from 'My Skin':
"O, I need
The darkness
The sweetness
The sadness
The weakness
I need this

I need
A lullaby
A kiss goodnight
Angel sweet
Love of my life
O, I need this

Do you remember the way
That you touched me before
All the trembling sweetness
I loved and adored?"

All of that hindsight 'I know I shouldn't but I want it so badly' is gorgeously sung atop a piano and brushstroke drumbeat of the type that has become the ultimate cliche on adult contempo radio by this point. But back then, it wasn't anything more than a really great revival of Carole King's best moments. But it's a bit deeper than that even.

'Frozen Charlotte,' —worthy of its own analytical post on its own— to me, is one of the most amazingly poignant and beautifully heartbroken songs ever written. It's the sort of song where you can just feel the emotional weight pulling down on the musicians as they play it. It's completely unclear to me what it's about. An indefinite departure or perhaps even death itself; it doesn't really matter. It's the sort of deeply meaningful and perfectly articulated song you hear and just know that it will only get better and more beautiful and profound with each passing listen. Probably Natalie's best song, Maniacs or otherwise.

Of its eleven tracks, not one rises above the seeming super fast tempo of 'Kind and Generous' (which can now perhaps be viewed as one of the most misleading singles in pop music history). Indeed, nothing here is as it appears, as on one track in the latter half of the album, Natalie declares herself to be "an effigy, a parody of who I appear to be." Only to conclude, "Put your flaming torches under me."

But, on the very next tune: "I don't care to stay with the living. No, I don't care to stay."

What in the world is going here?

A rootsy little tune that can now be looked at as her first proper foray into folksiness ('When They Ring the Golden Bells') and a passionate symphonic reprise of the title track (as a hidden track) and then it's all over.

So, here's some images from the album liners (make of them what you will):





Speaking through characters or not, Ophelia is NatMer's big artistic difficult second album triumph. The sort of which I seem to love. She was so bummed on this material, the live album documenting its tour only featured one song from the proper album (and not even the hit!).

Of course, I've grown to love this album and it has become easily my favorite NatMer album. Considering her direction into what has been a glorified research into perceived 'simpler' musical times ever since this album, I can't help but think it was the document of a personal experience so painful and personal that she has avoided anything of the sort ever since then, in an attempt at recapturing emotional innocence.

Hard to conjure a smile even this big for a seal of approval for an album that is so perpetually heart wrenching, but the appreciation comes with age.


Here's to hoping we get a sequel to the best one day.

Because it is her best.

~Austin

Natalie Merchant — Leave Your Sleep

The first instance that Natalie Merchant was going to shed her image of a veteran Lilith Fair alt-popper in favor of a more rootsy, Americana inspired modern day folk interpreter was her 2001 T-Bone Burnett produced album Motherland. It was a strange musical stew, bordering on blue-eyed soul and dark blues rock. While not wholly successful, it was an eye-opener. In context of her previous work with the jangle band 10,000 Maniacs and her solo work which was basically sophisticated adult contempo pop, Motherland was a jolt. To follow it with what was basically her version of a folk standards album, the competent but strictly by the books affair The House Carpenter's Daughter, felt natural and, more than anything else, especially after even a cursory listen to her latest work, a warm up for her proper foray into folk, rag time, Tin pan Alley pop, classic Americana and just all around 'ole timey' music.

Leave Your Sleep is an inexplicably dense album; let's just get that out of the way right now. Through it's two discs and twenty six tracks, the way it jumps styles, the entirety of its lyrics being borrowed from late 19th and early 20th century poems and nursery rhymes and the revolving door cast of musicians backing Natalie up are all signs that would normally point towards an overproduced, cacophonous and catastrophic work. But, through the sweeping orchestrations, the exquisite attention to detail and, through it all, Natalie's commanding vocals —as strong as ever— make for one of the most unified artistic statements I've heard on record in some time.

Accompanied by (quite literally) a small book that details the history of the poets and anonymous words used for the album's lyrics, it feels less like just the next Natalie Merchant album and more like a well-researched statement of purpose for an artist that has reached elder stateswoman status. But to imply that the intellectual aspect of the album is more important to its success than the actual music is inaccurate. Because, musically, even though it's forever stuck in the past, it feels like, for the first time in Natalie's solo catalogue, a labor of love.

Which is not to say that it's inherently her best album or that her previous solo albums are boring, because besides neither statement being true, but Leave Your Sleep is such a departure musically from anything previous and was literally years in the making that it almost dodges comparisons to her previous work, just out of context. I know I'm making it seem like Leave Your Sleep is a total masterpiece, but it does have the essence about it of timelessness and an 'art over commerce' attitude that I just can't deny.

So why not a perfect score?

Well, it's twenty six songs and nearly two hours long. Inherently, perhaps, there's bound to be some less than great material here. And there are some things that are just out of place: things that sound like Motherland rejects that should have stayed that way ("The Peppery Man"), two misguided collabs with the Wynton Marsalis group that sound like caricatures amidst otherwise genuine portrayals of styles ("Bleezer's Ice Cream" and "The Janitor's Boy") and a downright bad attempt at reggae ("Topsyturvey-World"). Couple these sporadic anti-highlights with an album that sounds very intimate, but through the general intimidation of such a deep and lengthy set of songs, inherently prevents such intimacy and you get a mammoth task of a front to back listen every single time.

All that being said, I can't really say this could have been effectively cut down to a single disc album because it's highlights are in excess of the length of a single disc. Sure, I can name the songs I don't like right away, but if I were to list my album highlights, it would just about be everything else. It's fitting that disc one starts with "Nursery Rhyme of Innocence and Experience" and "Equestrienne" —two songs of orchestrated youthful, but restrained, enthusiasm— and disc two ends with "Autumn Lullaby", "Spring and Fall: To A Young Child" and "Indian Names" —three songs of elderly advice given through a melancholy hindsight view— because it reflects perfectly the maturity and wisdom that intent listens will reveal.

I expected to hate it, in all honesty. I'm glad I was wrong.

Such warm music. It's definitely something I'll be listening to and taking in completely for a long time to come.

~Austin

Oscar and Alice again.

Alice has settled in extremely well since last fall...







...wouldn't you say?

~Austin

The Durutti Column — A Paean to Wilson

This is one of those albums where, going in, you just know it's going to be good. But, A Paean to Wilson feels even better, even sadder, even more poignant than I could've hoped for in even my prettiest of passionate, longing dreams.

Conceived as a musical tribute to the man who basically gave him a stage when no one else in their right mind would have, Vini Reilly's newest album for the late Tony Wilson is nothing short of hypnotic, immersing music. Pure menacing beauty. Because the album is in tribute to his dearly departed friend, A Paean to Wilson has an air to it of retrospect; a reflection of better days gone by and lonely days to come. Indeed, there is a sense of realization to be heard in this album. As if Tony's untimely and sudden death convinced Vini that he was not long for this world himself and he needed to make a purposeful and definitive statement that summed up all of the best qualities of his past work, while simultaneously capturing why he was still relevant after all these years.

But, make no mistakes, as calculated and programmed as this plan of an album may be, it is a crowd-pleaser of the highest order. Even if you don't know the history, this is gorgeous and redemptive music all around. But, if you do know the history, it is gorgeous, redemptive, heartbreaking and ultimately, glorious music of the most rewarding calibre.

Take a song like 'Requiem' for example. Sure, for Durutti fans, a rehash of an old tune. But, even here, it's played with a new intensity —arguably, an anger— that never would've occurred to most listeners otherwise. I can't even imagine what it would sound like on virgin ears; maybe some sort of dark, trip-hop tinged goth wankery. It is the definitive version of the tune. And thankfully, it's the only revisit to be found here.

'Chant' and 'Stuki' heavily recall the Vini Reilly album from 1989. Irresistible guitar riffs woven around vocal samples with seeming non-effort to create programmed beat-heavy little ditties that manage to be completely catchy and have a completely floating, lighter than air feel of the Column's best work. And it should be pointed out that Vini was actively trying to make music that Tony would have liked, so the complete lack of Vini's vocals, the resurrection of old Durutti alumni John Metcalfe, Keir Stewart and Tim Kellet and the inclusion of the Heaven Sent EP as a bonus disc (from 2005, previously a digital-only release and the first release on Tony's last label, F4); all of that was quite intentional. In fact, Vini states in a rare self-penned sleevenote, "My only objective was to create some music that Tony would thoroughly approve of."

The second half of the clearly-inspired, 70+ minute album is where things go from impressive and good to downright fantastic and pastoral. Starting with 'Brother,' obviously the best use of a Marvin Gaye sample in years and the album's definitive and spiritual centerpiece, and continuing right through the heart wrenching 'How Unbelievable,' it's a quite successful experiment in just how far a musician can carry a singular inspiration and still make music that has a clearly defined goal, but yet, outside of that goal and that context, can still sound absolutely engaging.

It is entirely too easy to get swept up in the clear emotion of this music and look past what Vini Reilly has actually done in terms of this being the next Durutti Column album. If his last album (last year's somewhat stagnant Love in the Time of Recession) was a bit regressive and semi-unimpressive in the face of the great loud/quiet combo of Idiot Savants and Sunlight to Blue...Blue to Blackness, then consider A Paean to Wilson to be the complete fulfillment of everything those two albums promised, and worlds more. At times, the album feels like a unified masterpiece, years in the making, but with Tony Wilson's death just over two years removed and numerous Durutti releases in the interim, that analysis is a bit confusing. How could he have had the time that such thoughtful material required?

I have no answers. All I can say is that it feels like a revelatory album for Vini, and not just because of its muse. Musically, he hasn't sounded this inspired and this good so consistently since the late 80's.

And that's actually more than a little impressive, considering the strength of his albums since Keep Breathing.

Fantastic, poignant, heartbreaking and wonderfully beautiful.

It's his best overall work in years.

(I am actually so damn tempted and close to giving this thing five stars, you wouldn't even believe it)

~Austin