Morrissey
You Are The Quarry
[Sanctuary]

by K. Vicious

Och, this is the new record by Stephen Morrissey, the once proud son of Irish immigrants, and he’s in an uncharitable mood. His first record in seven years, You Are The Quarry is Morrissey at his malicious best. And his vicious charisma doesn’t get any better than on The World Is Full Of Crashing Bore, a mocking diatribe against the ‘uniformed whores’ and ‘lockjawed pop stars thicker than pig shit’. Elsewhere on the album, Morrissey also takes snide aim at the United States (America Is Not The World), the erosion of national identity (Irish Blood, English Heart), record companies, music critics, pop music and maybe even the fickle faction of his fans (You Know I Can’t Last).

At this point of his career, one may argue that what drama there is still left in Morrissey does revolve around his bitter lashings of late. Having been out of the public eye it’s hard to buck a decade’s worth of indifference, but nobody is going to stop him from trying. So a little controversy is always welcomed; the recent and rather benign criticisms of George W Bush won’t hurt too.

For the service of the songs itself, Morrissey is in great form. His stinging lyrics are as good as ever and the music has bite. While I’m not so sure about the production (too clean perhaps), it’s hard to argue with great tunes like The First Of The Gang To Die, a pop masterpiece and another of his teasing paeans to teenaged street urchins. The aforementioned The World Is Full Of Crashing Bore is destined to be one of his greatest solo singles eventually, while Come Back To Camden recaptures some of the grandeur of the Smiths. Even when he misses the mark on the emotional overkill of I Have Forgiven Jesus, Morrissey nevertheless hits a chord with the miserable and the melodramatic – crowds that Morrissey has always played to.

If there’s anything amiss about You Are The Quarry, it’s that Morrissey’s characteristic wit and personal style are in serious danger of becoming overwrought and less than interesting. Listening to these new sounds, I really think the Moz really fancies himself to be some sort of a misunderstood martyr. And his defiance (“I am not sorry for what I had done” he sings on I’m Not Sorry) are seldom convincing – I’d most rather hear more of songs in the vein of First Of The Gang To Die.

And to be honest, isn’t Morrissey beginning to resemble more of an old and pathetic caricature of vindictiveness? It’s surprising that for a man who once inspired so many disenfranchised young people to fly in the face of conventions, Morrissey’s rebel stance now sounds a bit tiring. His winning days are long over, but You Are The Quarry, despite being an admirable comeback album, seems to suggest that Morrissey is still refusing to come to terms with his fading significance.

The Magnetic Fields
i
[Nonesuch]

by K. Vicious

Cynical, misanthropic, and yet a hopeless romantic, Stephin Merritt is the quintessential songwriter for love in these times, a Cole Porter for these ages.

On the last Magnetic Fields outing, the sprawling, 3-CD set, 69 Love Songs (1999) released five years ago, the scale of Merritt’s manic ambition had already been outlandishly revealed. As he dashed off these love songs after love songs across different genres with ridiculous ease, it became clear that it wasn’t a case of mere megalomania on Merritt’s part. There is a genuine sense of pop artistry at work in his tower of songs – even if Merritt has no qualms proclaiming in an interview that there is no place for sincerity in pop music.

While not half as voracious as 69 Love Songs, the new album i (Merritt’s gimmick: all the songs start with the letter ‘I’) is nevertheless a work of wonder, however unfashionable his songs may be. It’s fair to imagine that Merritt waited five years so that he won’t have to bear the impossible burden of following up his mammoth achievement. The 14 songs on i serve very nicely as companion pieces to those darned 69, with Merritt and his band mates wrapping their arms around his plaintive words and sad melodies in a casual mood. In a sense, i is truly a bit of a let down not only in terms of the uneven quality of the songs but also in terms of how it is dwarfed by the momentousness of 69 Love Songs.

There are hints about the new record being a more intimate affair: Merritt sings on all the songs, for starters. Plus the songwriting here could certainly be described as being more intimate or even personal. But then, Merritt is always on the sardonic side of things and i can be anything but autobiography. Still the new songs will be familiar to those already acquainted to Merritt’s dour moods. Accompanied by Sam Davol’s moaning cellos, opening song I Die evokes a frumpy, baroque feel that sticks, especially later on Merritt’s questionable attempts at saloon singing on Infinitely Late At Night and Is This What They Used To Call Love.

As on 69 Love Songs, the tracks that work best on i are actually those where the contributions of each band members are more obvious: John Woo’s playful banjo punctuates Merritt’s parched wit on I Don’t Really Love You Anymore; Claudia Gonson’s glass-eyed pianos on I Was Born; the ensemble playing that renders Irma its sad elegance. And while the old-time Magnetic Fields fans might bemoan the reworked I Don’t Believe You, the new version actually does benefit from the new and richer song arrangement. While we are on the subject of the significance of sincerity in pop songs, how should one consider then an everlasting ballad like It’s Only Time, a song of vows Merritt chose to close i with?

So even if these modest creations Merritt flaunts on i do fall short of the full flower of his songwriting gift, nobody ought to make the mistake of labeling the new Magnetic Fields a failure or a disappointment too soon.

Devendra Banhart
Rejoicing In The Hands
[Young God]

by K. Vicious

Twenty-two-year-old singer-songwriter Devendra Banhart has been garnering plenty of underground attention for his two albums of newfangled folk ideas, both released on relatively obscure indie labels. But anyone who has ever heard Bert Jansch, John Fahey, or even contemporary musicians like M Ward or June Panic, might have a hard time wondering what all the fuss is about.

Performing with lo-fi equipment and singing in a quivery voice, Banhart’s songs have that frail quality that many critics have mistaken for his charms and his quirks; it’s actually more of a shtick, helped by his effectively surreal lyrics about frozen noses and laughing trees. This is not a knock on Banhart’s talents – there’s enough cool shit on this album to like – but he does get too much of a free ride for being eccentric.

Willfully incorrigible and meandering, Banhart’s songwriting can sometimes sound terribly self-indulgent. Luckily, good hands are available to steer Rejoicing In The Hands in the right direction. On his second album, Banhart is backed by ex-Swan (and Young God label head) Michael Gira’s crack band, the Angels Of Light. On standout tracks like Coming Back To California, the musicians provide finely-tuned backing to his loose streams of wistfulness. Banhart may have not yet learned to temper his peculiar ways and allow his songwriting to function as a means of expression, but Rejoicing In The Hands already suggests an exciting, original talent.