Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie - Alanis Morissette
I like this album a lot more than Jagged Little Pill, and I think that’s mainly because it’s so much longer. As a general rule, if I like something, I like to have a lot of it, so the hour-and-ten runtime of this album is quite satisfying to me. Maybe it’s just me, but the songs also seem like much more fertile ground for analysis as well. For instance...
In Baba is a barrage of imagery of Hindu worship and descipleship, but in a scathingly cynical tone. Worshippers are portrayed as self-serving, focused on ritual and physical trappings, seeing absolution and enlightenment as goals with definite steps and a clear endpoint - spirituality as a mechanized, heirarchical process, rather than a state of mind and way of life. The whole song uses Hindu terminology and imagery, so it looks like it's critical of Hinduism, or at least of the more mechanized and heirarchical aspects of the religion.
So why is it that, halfway through, the rock music curtain parts to make way for an ave Maria - a distinct reference to Christianity? It sounds totally out of place, until you realize that many of the same cynical observations have been made for centuries against Christianity, and Catholicism especially: the mechanized path to salvation, "righteousness mixed without loving compassion", top-down heirarchical structures, focus on physical trappings at the expense of true meaning. These criticisms date back at least as far as the Protestant Reformation, and are still being openly contested even now. Many Western practitioners of Eastern faiths converted explicitly to escape those very same problems, but this song implies that they will find the same problems even half a world away in a completely foreign belief system. Could it be that the corruption (or the purity) of a faith lies in the heart of the practitioner, not in the religion itself?
The rest of the songs here are at least as worthy of analysis (and perhaps one day I will give each of them the critical treatment they deserve), but most are more personal than political, continuing the diary-like vibe from Jagged Little Pill. This is especially true of songs like I Was Hoping, structured so much like narrative prose that it's hard to believe it works so well as music (but it does).
If you think the mostly-two-sided conversational storytelling in I Was Hoping is hard to follow, try The Couch, which seems to change perspectives impossibly fast without changing its intensely angst-ridden tone. I first heard this album as a kid, so it took me an embarassingly long time to realize that the title referred to the couch in a psychiatrist's office, and that all these divergent monologues are by psychiatric patients connected by their common need.
After so many years I still find this album to be an endless rabbit-hole for contemplation, revelation, and deep intellectual pleasure. May it remain so for many years to come.
Next: Under Rug Swept
Thursday, July 30, 2015
Monday, July 27, 2015
All My CDs, pt 81: Jagged Little Pill
Jagged Little Pill - Alanis Morissette
First of all, I shall not in this blog entertain debate as to the properness of the use of the term "ironic" in the song of the same name on this album. My stance on this issue is echoed in the last part of this video, so direct your pedantry that way if you're so inclined. I will mention, though, that I rather like the song. It's enjoyable and punchy regardless of whether its diction is solid.
Alanis Morissette holds two distinctions: the first rock musician I ever discovered independently of my parents' musical tastes, and the first I ever named as my favorite musician. Although my attention may have wavered over the years, and many other favorites have surfaced, she's still among the greatest.
This album and its immediate follower, Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie, entered my collection by way of my brother's; he lost interest shortly after I became obsessed in my early-adolescent way, and so his CDs became mine. What appealed to me then and now was the same raw, sincere, yet articulate expression that seems to be her signature in the music world. Each song reads like a page ripped from a diary, full of secret thoughts and vulnerabilities we enjoy because we can relate, even if we're afraid to own up to those feelings ourselves. Yet it’s so much more than words; it’s the way they’re sung and the convergence of instrumental elements that rings so emotionally true. It's especially fitting that this would be my introduction to a world outside my parents' control, because it doubly served as an introduction to my own inner world, as I discovered parts of myself that are wholely my own even as they reflect experiences shared by others.
Now about the feelings contained in this album. I’ve heard of Morissette being characterized as “angry,” as if that is a personality trait, and if you only look at songs like You Oughta Know, Perfect, and Right Through You, it starts to make sense. But Ironic, Forgiven and Not the Doctor seem more wryly critical or snarky, and most of the others are downright positive in their outlook. Mary Jane is tender-loving, while Head Over Feet is more enthusiastic. Hand in my Pocket, You Learn, and All I Really Want really feel like the core of the album to me, as inwardly-focused and mainly positive expressions of self and self-awareness.
Wake Up is a personal favorite, with lyrics that never fail to prod me into action if I’ve been overly sedentary:
You like pain but only if it doesn't hurt too much
And you sit and you wait to receive
There's an abvious attraction to the path of least resistance
in your life
There's an obvious aversion no amount of my insistance
can make you try tonight
Here’s a history lesson. This is the first album where I ever encountered the briefly-popular “hidden bonus track.” Back when people weren’t playing music on their computers regularly, and it was easier for a CD player to display the number of tracks on the album than the length of each track, it became common to conceal a second song on one of the tracks, making it doubly long. While this gimmick was effective and pleasantly surprising for a few years, it made those albums more difficult to convert to digital format. Also, the length of the track was a dead givaway when displayed on a computer or MP3 player screen, ruining the surprise.
That said, the first time I heard Your House, its a capella spookiness sneaking in from the silence after the last notes of You Oughta Know, it was as shocking and unexpected as discovering a household intruder upon returning home.
Next: Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie
First of all, I shall not in this blog entertain debate as to the properness of the use of the term "ironic" in the song of the same name on this album. My stance on this issue is echoed in the last part of this video, so direct your pedantry that way if you're so inclined. I will mention, though, that I rather like the song. It's enjoyable and punchy regardless of whether its diction is solid.
Alanis Morissette holds two distinctions: the first rock musician I ever discovered independently of my parents' musical tastes, and the first I ever named as my favorite musician. Although my attention may have wavered over the years, and many other favorites have surfaced, she's still among the greatest.
This album and its immediate follower, Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie, entered my collection by way of my brother's; he lost interest shortly after I became obsessed in my early-adolescent way, and so his CDs became mine. What appealed to me then and now was the same raw, sincere, yet articulate expression that seems to be her signature in the music world. Each song reads like a page ripped from a diary, full of secret thoughts and vulnerabilities we enjoy because we can relate, even if we're afraid to own up to those feelings ourselves. Yet it’s so much more than words; it’s the way they’re sung and the convergence of instrumental elements that rings so emotionally true. It's especially fitting that this would be my introduction to a world outside my parents' control, because it doubly served as an introduction to my own inner world, as I discovered parts of myself that are wholely my own even as they reflect experiences shared by others.
Now about the feelings contained in this album. I’ve heard of Morissette being characterized as “angry,” as if that is a personality trait, and if you only look at songs like You Oughta Know, Perfect, and Right Through You, it starts to make sense. But Ironic, Forgiven and Not the Doctor seem more wryly critical or snarky, and most of the others are downright positive in their outlook. Mary Jane is tender-loving, while Head Over Feet is more enthusiastic. Hand in my Pocket, You Learn, and All I Really Want really feel like the core of the album to me, as inwardly-focused and mainly positive expressions of self and self-awareness.
Wake Up is a personal favorite, with lyrics that never fail to prod me into action if I’ve been overly sedentary:
You like pain but only if it doesn't hurt too much
And you sit and you wait to receive
There's an abvious attraction to the path of least resistance
in your life
There's an obvious aversion no amount of my insistance
can make you try tonight
Here’s a history lesson. This is the first album where I ever encountered the briefly-popular “hidden bonus track.” Back when people weren’t playing music on their computers regularly, and it was easier for a CD player to display the number of tracks on the album than the length of each track, it became common to conceal a second song on one of the tracks, making it doubly long. While this gimmick was effective and pleasantly surprising for a few years, it made those albums more difficult to convert to digital format. Also, the length of the track was a dead givaway when displayed on a computer or MP3 player screen, ruining the surprise.
That said, the first time I heard Your House, its a capella spookiness sneaking in from the silence after the last notes of You Oughta Know, it was as shocking and unexpected as discovering a household intruder upon returning home.
Next: Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie
Thursday, July 23, 2015
All My CDs, pt 80: Everybody
Everybody - Ingrid Michaelson
This is my favorite Ingrid Michaelson album. There just seems to be a whole lot more variety on it than the other two albums of hers that I own. One thing that has occurred to me since those other two reviews is that almost all of Ingrid Michaelson’s songs are love songs. Though her approach to writing love songs is varied and nuanced, I can’t help but notice the repetition. Everybody is not much different in that regard, but I get a sense of energy and innovation that isn’t quite as prominent in the others.
The title track, Everybody, reminds us of the universality of love and its impact not just on everybody but on every aspect of human experience, and does so in an infectiously singable fashion. As such it makes an excellent case for the album’s existence as a collection of love songs (and the seemingly unbalanced focus on love in pop music in general). But few of the other songs are as lovey-dovey or saccharine as this one. Love is universal, but according to the rest of the songs, it is also destructive, overwhelming, risky, ellusive, fleeting, and conspicuously absent.
Are We There Yet depicts love as seemingly so close, but perpetually not quite there. Locked Up is more about the frustration of trying to find love against the wishes of one’s own untrusting heart. Soldier really nails the panicky feelings associated with finally taking that great and vulnerable step: “How do I know if I’ll make it through? How do I know? Where’s the proof in you?”
Sort Of recognizes that sometimes love, while true and passionate, may not be the best thing for one’s stability. Once Was Love is the happiest break-up song I’ve ever heard, cheerfully proclaiming:
Just because there once was love
don’t mean a thing, don’t mean a thing
The Chain might be my favorite on the album. Every line seems to drip with the truth of what I’ve felt with every heartbreak I’ve ever experienced, but free of the anger, denial, bitterness, or despair that seems always to stand in the way of healing. It’s open and peaceful, even during grief and pain.
That openness is also reflected in the final song, Maybe, which is also much more upbeat and happy. Its focus isn’t on the sadness of saying goodbye, but on the hope that it won’t be goodbye forever. It directly alludes to and embodies the spirit of that ever-wishful adage: “If you love something, let it go.” In my experience, that course of action has proven wise, if not by any means easy.
Having had enough of sweet songs, I’m looking forward to music with a bit of vinegar.
Next: Jagged Little Pill
This is my favorite Ingrid Michaelson album. There just seems to be a whole lot more variety on it than the other two albums of hers that I own. One thing that has occurred to me since those other two reviews is that almost all of Ingrid Michaelson’s songs are love songs. Though her approach to writing love songs is varied and nuanced, I can’t help but notice the repetition. Everybody is not much different in that regard, but I get a sense of energy and innovation that isn’t quite as prominent in the others.
The title track, Everybody, reminds us of the universality of love and its impact not just on everybody but on every aspect of human experience, and does so in an infectiously singable fashion. As such it makes an excellent case for the album’s existence as a collection of love songs (and the seemingly unbalanced focus on love in pop music in general). But few of the other songs are as lovey-dovey or saccharine as this one. Love is universal, but according to the rest of the songs, it is also destructive, overwhelming, risky, ellusive, fleeting, and conspicuously absent.
Are We There Yet depicts love as seemingly so close, but perpetually not quite there. Locked Up is more about the frustration of trying to find love against the wishes of one’s own untrusting heart. Soldier really nails the panicky feelings associated with finally taking that great and vulnerable step: “How do I know if I’ll make it through? How do I know? Where’s the proof in you?”
Sort Of recognizes that sometimes love, while true and passionate, may not be the best thing for one’s stability. Once Was Love is the happiest break-up song I’ve ever heard, cheerfully proclaiming:
Just because there once was love
don’t mean a thing, don’t mean a thing
The Chain might be my favorite on the album. Every line seems to drip with the truth of what I’ve felt with every heartbreak I’ve ever experienced, but free of the anger, denial, bitterness, or despair that seems always to stand in the way of healing. It’s open and peaceful, even during grief and pain.
That openness is also reflected in the final song, Maybe, which is also much more upbeat and happy. Its focus isn’t on the sadness of saying goodbye, but on the hope that it won’t be goodbye forever. It directly alludes to and embodies the spirit of that ever-wishful adage: “If you love something, let it go.” In my experience, that course of action has proven wise, if not by any means easy.
Having had enough of sweet songs, I’m looking forward to music with a bit of vinegar.
Next: Jagged Little Pill
Monday, July 20, 2015
All My CDs, pt 79: Be Okay
Be Okay - Ingrid Michaelson
I often listen to this album together with Girls and Boys, which I already reviewed, and much of my observations about that album seem to extend to this one. One difference is that while Girls and Boys is pretty evenly ambivalent throughout all its songs, Be Okay contains a bit more of a mix of happy and wistful songs, along with the ambivalent ones. It also has some covers of quite old songs. One is a rendition of Can’t Help Falling in Love which successfully overcame my preexisting dislike of Elvis Presley, and the other is an especially loopy version of Over the Rainbow.
The Way I Am and You and I are some of the most simple and unreservedly happy love songs, and Giving Up is more bittersweet, framing love and commitment as a somewhat resigned determination to stick together even through very unromantic circumstances: “What if we stop having a ball? / What if the paint chips from the wall? / What if there’s always cups in the sink? And what if I’m not what you think I am?” I especially like songs that explore the darker and dingier side of love, and accept them.
Another favorite on this album is Keep Breathing, which strikes me as a musical endorsement of mindfulness meditation. Through death and chaos and suffering, the calm yet unrelenting chorus repeats “All we can do is keep breathing now,” at a pace consistent with slow, even, mindful breaths. I only wish it were more than three and a half minutes. That’s the real problem with pop songs: they’re too short.
Next: Everybody
I often listen to this album together with Girls and Boys, which I already reviewed, and much of my observations about that album seem to extend to this one. One difference is that while Girls and Boys is pretty evenly ambivalent throughout all its songs, Be Okay contains a bit more of a mix of happy and wistful songs, along with the ambivalent ones. It also has some covers of quite old songs. One is a rendition of Can’t Help Falling in Love which successfully overcame my preexisting dislike of Elvis Presley, and the other is an especially loopy version of Over the Rainbow.
The Way I Am and You and I are some of the most simple and unreservedly happy love songs, and Giving Up is more bittersweet, framing love and commitment as a somewhat resigned determination to stick together even through very unromantic circumstances: “What if we stop having a ball? / What if the paint chips from the wall? / What if there’s always cups in the sink? And what if I’m not what you think I am?” I especially like songs that explore the darker and dingier side of love, and accept them.
Another favorite on this album is Keep Breathing, which strikes me as a musical endorsement of mindfulness meditation. Through death and chaos and suffering, the calm yet unrelenting chorus repeats “All we can do is keep breathing now,” at a pace consistent with slow, even, mindful breaths. I only wish it were more than three and a half minutes. That’s the real problem with pop songs: they’re too short.
Next: Everybody
Thursday, July 16, 2015
All My CDs, pt 78: Girls and Boys
Girls and Boys - Ingrid Michaelson
For a long time in my late teens and early twenties, I listened to zero radio and only found out about music through word-of-mouth or from online services like Pandora Radio which are blind to popularity. As a result my collection began to skew toward the obscure, and I began (subconsciously at first) to assume that any artist I enjoyed was relatively unheard of on the pop scene. I learned of Ingrid Michaelson from the same friend who introduced me to the likes of Sufjan Stevens, the Wailin’ Jennys, and October Project, and didn’t realize for quite some time that she lies more along the pop end of the popularity-obscurity scale. She’s hardly Taylor Swift, but... well, she’s a little bit Taylor Swiftish, if you catch my drift.
I like Ingrid Michaelson for how she can sing songs with heartbreakingly sad lyrics and cloyingly happy-sounding music. The first song on this album, Die Alone (what a cheerful title), begins with a fifties-esque chorus of “Ba-da-da”s before the lead vocals come in with “Woke up this morning / a funny taste in my head /spackled some butter / over my whole-grain bread”. The song is about newfound love, but makes it sound like a death. A happy kind of death. There’s truth to that juxtaposition, and each song on this album strikes the balance in about the same precarious spot. It’s delightfully nerve-wracking.
The title song is another prime example of the happy anxiety principle at work:
We are so fragile
and our cracking bones make noise
and we are just
breakable
breakable
breakable
girls and boys
All sung in a light and lilting voice, with simple piano backing, as if broken bones and stopping hearts were standard fare for feel-good love songs.
As someone who’s been hurt so many times, and struggled to maintain an optimistic outlook in life because of it, I can totally get behind music that puts a cheery veneer on the horrifying imagery and sensations of heartbreak. When I’m feeling especially dysfunctional, I can put on some of these songs and at least sound happy when I’m falling apart.
Right now the song I’m identifying with the most is Overboard. It nicely captures the tension between wanting to be seen as strong and independent, but also feeling tempted to play the distressed damsel:
I never thought I’d be the type
to fall overboard
just so you can catch me
Next: Be Okay
For a long time in my late teens and early twenties, I listened to zero radio and only found out about music through word-of-mouth or from online services like Pandora Radio which are blind to popularity. As a result my collection began to skew toward the obscure, and I began (subconsciously at first) to assume that any artist I enjoyed was relatively unheard of on the pop scene. I learned of Ingrid Michaelson from the same friend who introduced me to the likes of Sufjan Stevens, the Wailin’ Jennys, and October Project, and didn’t realize for quite some time that she lies more along the pop end of the popularity-obscurity scale. She’s hardly Taylor Swift, but... well, she’s a little bit Taylor Swiftish, if you catch my drift.
I like Ingrid Michaelson for how she can sing songs with heartbreakingly sad lyrics and cloyingly happy-sounding music. The first song on this album, Die Alone (what a cheerful title), begins with a fifties-esque chorus of “Ba-da-da”s before the lead vocals come in with “Woke up this morning / a funny taste in my head /spackled some butter / over my whole-grain bread”. The song is about newfound love, but makes it sound like a death. A happy kind of death. There’s truth to that juxtaposition, and each song on this album strikes the balance in about the same precarious spot. It’s delightfully nerve-wracking.
The title song is another prime example of the happy anxiety principle at work:
We are so fragile
and our cracking bones make noise
and we are just
breakable
breakable
breakable
girls and boys
All sung in a light and lilting voice, with simple piano backing, as if broken bones and stopping hearts were standard fare for feel-good love songs.
As someone who’s been hurt so many times, and struggled to maintain an optimistic outlook in life because of it, I can totally get behind music that puts a cheery veneer on the horrifying imagery and sensations of heartbreak. When I’m feeling especially dysfunctional, I can put on some of these songs and at least sound happy when I’m falling apart.
Right now the song I’m identifying with the most is Overboard. It nicely captures the tension between wanting to be seen as strong and independent, but also feeling tempted to play the distressed damsel:
I never thought I’d be the type
to fall overboard
just so you can catch me
Next: Be Okay
Monday, July 13, 2015
All My CDs, pt 77: Celtic Harpy
Celtic Harpy - Elvis Manson
This will be my last Elvis Manson CD review; then I’ll be back to reviewing music that the rest of the world has had a chance to actually know about. But considering that very few people read my blog, and many of them probably also know Elvis Manson personally (or are Elvis Manson personally), maybe I overestimate the obscurity of his albums to my general readership. If not, feel free to check out his soundcloud.
So far Elvis Manson has done Christmas music, rock covers, original rock, and parody, and with this one he branches out into some new-age instrumental stuff, with only a few tracks containing spoken or sung words. The Celtic Harp that gives the album its name, as well as most of the other instruments (including, if I remember correctly, the sounds of waves crashing on the surf) are produced on a synthesizer, with a few other instruments that are not synthesized. But the technology is 21st century and the execution is nearly immaculate, so it hardly sounds fake or overly electronic.
Many of the pieces have melodies recycled from songs he’d written earlier in his career, such as the Twilight Suite which contains tunes and words from Twilight Lake and some others, which are found on albums not currently in my collection. Canticum Sanctorum is an expanded and cleaned-up version of another old song that lampooned Catholic ritual and biblical language. It’s here stripped of all traces of humor, and what’s left is vaguely occult spookiness at its spookiest.
Familiar as I am with the earlier use of the tunes, I at first found it distracting trying to draw parallels between my memory and what my ears were hearing. But by now I just find the whole thing hedonically enjoyable, familiar or not.
Hope you enjoyed reading of my many and varied impressions of my father’s music, and the subtle and overt influences it has had on my lifelong experience of music in general. Like I said, there are some drawbacks to having a musician in the family. But there are also some perks. This album is certainly one of them.
Next: Girls and Boys
This will be my last Elvis Manson CD review; then I’ll be back to reviewing music that the rest of the world has had a chance to actually know about. But considering that very few people read my blog, and many of them probably also know Elvis Manson personally (or are Elvis Manson personally), maybe I overestimate the obscurity of his albums to my general readership. If not, feel free to check out his soundcloud.
So far Elvis Manson has done Christmas music, rock covers, original rock, and parody, and with this one he branches out into some new-age instrumental stuff, with only a few tracks containing spoken or sung words. The Celtic Harp that gives the album its name, as well as most of the other instruments (including, if I remember correctly, the sounds of waves crashing on the surf) are produced on a synthesizer, with a few other instruments that are not synthesized. But the technology is 21st century and the execution is nearly immaculate, so it hardly sounds fake or overly electronic.
Many of the pieces have melodies recycled from songs he’d written earlier in his career, such as the Twilight Suite which contains tunes and words from Twilight Lake and some others, which are found on albums not currently in my collection. Canticum Sanctorum is an expanded and cleaned-up version of another old song that lampooned Catholic ritual and biblical language. It’s here stripped of all traces of humor, and what’s left is vaguely occult spookiness at its spookiest.
Familiar as I am with the earlier use of the tunes, I at first found it distracting trying to draw parallels between my memory and what my ears were hearing. But by now I just find the whole thing hedonically enjoyable, familiar or not.
Hope you enjoyed reading of my many and varied impressions of my father’s music, and the subtle and overt influences it has had on my lifelong experience of music in general. Like I said, there are some drawbacks to having a musician in the family. But there are also some perks. This album is certainly one of them.
Next: Girls and Boys
Thursday, July 09, 2015
All My CDs, pt 76: The Schlong Remains Insane
The Schlong Remains Insane - Elvis Manson
Here comes perhaps the most awkward moment of this entire two-hundred-twenty-part review project: the moment where I review my own father’s album of dirty parodies. And when I say dirty, I don’t mean occasional swear words and references to sex. I mean filth of the most puerile and immature. The second song (and the first with lyrics) makes light of prison rape to the tune of Bad Case of Loving You, with shockingly explicit description. The album then cycles rapidly through familiar tunes re-worded to cover everything from coprophilia to transvestism to prostitution.
And the material is most certainly not handled in a sex-positive or inclusive way. One gets the impression that this kind of humor is the result of rebellion against repression, rather than actual acceptance of sexual difference and healthy expressions of sexuality. This isn’t a reasoned commentary on negative sexual attitudes in our society; it’s more like an hour-long purging of a lifetime of thoughts and urges that have been denied and bottled up and branded as perverted or sinful or unpolite. And there’s only so much of that I can take before I just have to shut off the music.
My relatively sex-positive upbringing has given me a privilege. I don’t automatically see sexual content as forbidden and therefore exciting. Shock doesn’t have as much value to me. I like art that involves or expresses sexuality, but when the whole point is to say “Isn’t this perverted?” I often have to respond with “Yeah, but not for the reason you think it is.” Repression and demonization is the perversion, and much of dirty humor is its traumatic aftereffects.
I’m afraid I didn’t spend much of this review talking about music. I’m sorry for that. Like I said, it’s an awkward moment.
Next: Celtic Harpy
Here comes perhaps the most awkward moment of this entire two-hundred-twenty-part review project: the moment where I review my own father’s album of dirty parodies. And when I say dirty, I don’t mean occasional swear words and references to sex. I mean filth of the most puerile and immature. The second song (and the first with lyrics) makes light of prison rape to the tune of Bad Case of Loving You, with shockingly explicit description. The album then cycles rapidly through familiar tunes re-worded to cover everything from coprophilia to transvestism to prostitution.
And the material is most certainly not handled in a sex-positive or inclusive way. One gets the impression that this kind of humor is the result of rebellion against repression, rather than actual acceptance of sexual difference and healthy expressions of sexuality. This isn’t a reasoned commentary on negative sexual attitudes in our society; it’s more like an hour-long purging of a lifetime of thoughts and urges that have been denied and bottled up and branded as perverted or sinful or unpolite. And there’s only so much of that I can take before I just have to shut off the music.
My relatively sex-positive upbringing has given me a privilege. I don’t automatically see sexual content as forbidden and therefore exciting. Shock doesn’t have as much value to me. I like art that involves or expresses sexuality, but when the whole point is to say “Isn’t this perverted?” I often have to respond with “Yeah, but not for the reason you think it is.” Repression and demonization is the perversion, and much of dirty humor is its traumatic aftereffects.
I’m afraid I didn’t spend much of this review talking about music. I’m sorry for that. Like I said, it’s an awkward moment.
Next: Celtic Harpy
Monday, July 06, 2015
All My CDs, pt 75: Naked Dinner
Naked Dinner - Elvis Manson
Elvis Manson (my father) did a few albums of original music before this one, and I’m quite sure I possessed a copy of each at some point. Whether the disks themselves were damaged over the years, or were lost over the course of five moves, they’re not in my collection anymore, while this one is. It’s both a shame and a blessing, since Naked Dinner represents (in my mind) a landmark event in Manson’s career, where his music and production values changed dramatically for the better.
There are fifteen tracks here, covering a range of styles and content almost as broad and diverse as rock music in general. Moods: jaded, hopeful, confused, jealous, enraged, despairing, cynical, fearful. Subjects: birth, death, love, loss, sociology, depression, obsession, the music industry, theology, Kansas City. There’s a reason for the immense diversity represented in this album, explained by Elvis himself in a conversation with my brother: it’s a concept album, meant to represent a man’s entire life story and all the many experiences within it.
For instance:
Knights describes in cynical terms the dating and courting games of adolescence and young adulthood. Guitar chronicles the story of a young musician’s years-long pursuit of that prestigious instrument of rock, from classically-trained pianist to bumbling rock novice to halfway-decent open-mic artist. Nearer the end, in PC Music Man, the same musician laments all the technological advances that have changed the music industry. Leave and Synthepsycho, at the approximate midpoint of the album, seem to reflect a psychotic break. Captain describes disillusionment with faith (“If your God is really as you speak of him or it /(if your God is really God)/ there’s no escape from hell, not by your faith nor by my wit.”) Later on, Searching seems to describe the reconciliation with a different form of faith.
Nestled in between some of the songs are little bonus-songs, not listed in the track listing, little weird additions like a thirty-second jingle for Post Raisin Bran or a Mexican folk song in Mariachi style. I had forgotten they were there, and they surprised me
One of my favorite tracks is Ocean, possibly because I have an unhealthy fondness for songs about suicide. But I honestly believe the wistful melodies and lyrics are among the most beautiful in my father’s repertoire. I also really like Les Jeux Sont Faits, which is really little more than a five-minute-long musical endcard, but contains some of the most interesting percussion.
Overall there’s just too much good stuff in this album to ignore. I must remember to listen to it more often. (But given how many times I’ve said that in this review project and how many more albums I have still to review, we’ll see how well I follow through.)
Next: The Schlong Remains Insane
Elvis Manson (my father) did a few albums of original music before this one, and I’m quite sure I possessed a copy of each at some point. Whether the disks themselves were damaged over the years, or were lost over the course of five moves, they’re not in my collection anymore, while this one is. It’s both a shame and a blessing, since Naked Dinner represents (in my mind) a landmark event in Manson’s career, where his music and production values changed dramatically for the better.
There are fifteen tracks here, covering a range of styles and content almost as broad and diverse as rock music in general. Moods: jaded, hopeful, confused, jealous, enraged, despairing, cynical, fearful. Subjects: birth, death, love, loss, sociology, depression, obsession, the music industry, theology, Kansas City. There’s a reason for the immense diversity represented in this album, explained by Elvis himself in a conversation with my brother: it’s a concept album, meant to represent a man’s entire life story and all the many experiences within it.
For instance:
Knights describes in cynical terms the dating and courting games of adolescence and young adulthood. Guitar chronicles the story of a young musician’s years-long pursuit of that prestigious instrument of rock, from classically-trained pianist to bumbling rock novice to halfway-decent open-mic artist. Nearer the end, in PC Music Man, the same musician laments all the technological advances that have changed the music industry. Leave and Synthepsycho, at the approximate midpoint of the album, seem to reflect a psychotic break. Captain describes disillusionment with faith (“If your God is really as you speak of him or it /(if your God is really God)/ there’s no escape from hell, not by your faith nor by my wit.”) Later on, Searching seems to describe the reconciliation with a different form of faith.
Nestled in between some of the songs are little bonus-songs, not listed in the track listing, little weird additions like a thirty-second jingle for Post Raisin Bran or a Mexican folk song in Mariachi style. I had forgotten they were there, and they surprised me
One of my favorite tracks is Ocean, possibly because I have an unhealthy fondness for songs about suicide. But I honestly believe the wistful melodies and lyrics are among the most beautiful in my father’s repertoire. I also really like Les Jeux Sont Faits, which is really little more than a five-minute-long musical endcard, but contains some of the most interesting percussion.
Overall there’s just too much good stuff in this album to ignore. I must remember to listen to it more often. (But given how many times I’ve said that in this review project and how many more albums I have still to review, we’ll see how well I follow through.)
Next: The Schlong Remains Insane
Friday, July 03, 2015
All My CDs, pt 74: Dishcover the Riddle
Dishcover the Riddle - Elvis Manson
There are a few unexpected drawbacks to growing up with a musician as a parent. One is that if there is a song my father has covered or parodied, his version is almost certain to be more familiar to me than the original, to the point where the original will sound at least vaguely wrong to me. Dishcover the Riddle, recorded in 2000 when I was a preteen, is an album of covers, mostly of songs that became popular in the 70s. (I’m just now realizing this would mean they were on the radio during Elvis Manson’s own teen years.) To me, the covers are the definitive versions, and I like them quite a lot more than the originals.
Thunder Road is an interesting example of what I’m talking about here. I’ve never been too fond of Bruce Sprinsteen, to be honest. His voice and singing style grates on me; he sounds almost drunk to me. The cover here is sung in a more straightforward style, but still with just enough twang to make it sound as wistful as the lyrics suggest. I could say the same about Taxi; that and Thunder Road might be my two favorite songs on the album.
Most of them are done in a style that differs from the original significantly. Some of the choices made are a bit weird when you think about it, such as singing Jackson Browne’s love song Nightengale like a robot who’s just had five cups of espresso. Somehow the frenetic energy is very suitable for the lyrics’ unrelenting optimism.
And in a counterpoint: I enjoyed the cover of Southern Cross when I was a kid, and I guess I still do, but after repeated exposures I think I’d actually say that the original by Crosby, Stills & Nash is better. But ironically, I may never have come to love the original if not for this introduction. Covers are weird. Sometimes they pay tribute to the original, sometimes they overshadow the original, and sometimes they just serve as a cultural stepping stone.
Not much I particularly have to say about other songs. Kudos goes to John Entwistle and Elvis Manson for making domestic violence sound like a fun-filled romp in My Wife. And as a kid, the casual reference to Satan in Houses of the Holy always kind of thrilled me. And after fifteen years, I still have not dishcovered the riddle.
Next: Naked Dinner
There are a few unexpected drawbacks to growing up with a musician as a parent. One is that if there is a song my father has covered or parodied, his version is almost certain to be more familiar to me than the original, to the point where the original will sound at least vaguely wrong to me. Dishcover the Riddle, recorded in 2000 when I was a preteen, is an album of covers, mostly of songs that became popular in the 70s. (I’m just now realizing this would mean they were on the radio during Elvis Manson’s own teen years.) To me, the covers are the definitive versions, and I like them quite a lot more than the originals.
Thunder Road is an interesting example of what I’m talking about here. I’ve never been too fond of Bruce Sprinsteen, to be honest. His voice and singing style grates on me; he sounds almost drunk to me. The cover here is sung in a more straightforward style, but still with just enough twang to make it sound as wistful as the lyrics suggest. I could say the same about Taxi; that and Thunder Road might be my two favorite songs on the album.
Most of them are done in a style that differs from the original significantly. Some of the choices made are a bit weird when you think about it, such as singing Jackson Browne’s love song Nightengale like a robot who’s just had five cups of espresso. Somehow the frenetic energy is very suitable for the lyrics’ unrelenting optimism.
And in a counterpoint: I enjoyed the cover of Southern Cross when I was a kid, and I guess I still do, but after repeated exposures I think I’d actually say that the original by Crosby, Stills & Nash is better. But ironically, I may never have come to love the original if not for this introduction. Covers are weird. Sometimes they pay tribute to the original, sometimes they overshadow the original, and sometimes they just serve as a cultural stepping stone.
Not much I particularly have to say about other songs. Kudos goes to John Entwistle and Elvis Manson for making domestic violence sound like a fun-filled romp in My Wife. And as a kid, the casual reference to Satan in Houses of the Holy always kind of thrilled me. And after fifteen years, I still have not dishcovered the riddle.
Next: Naked Dinner
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