Usually the liner notes to a compilation of hard-to-find or out-of-print material from an obscure musician includes an essay that makes (or overstates) a case for the artist's worthiness. In the case of Local Currency, a collection of vinyl releases and compilation appearances made in the mid-to-late 1990s by Franklin Bruno, the honor is given to award-winning poet and The Nation. columnist Ange Mlinko. In addition to offering many kind words in Bruno's behalf, Mlinko compares his brand of musical erudition (specifically his lyrics) with the ouevres proffered by a rather daunting Mount Rushmore: Elvis Costello, Morrissey, Jonathan Richman, and Bob Dylan. Impressive company, to be sure, even if it's company that one would be hard pressed to weigh any songwriter against. For those a little suspect of such lofty praise, you're not alone: The liner notes also include some words from Bruno himself, a self-administered roast to Mlinko's well-meaning toast. Going through this album track by track, he leads listeners down this decade-old memory lane, never hesitating to point out the overgrown lawns and dilapidated storefronts that dot the landscape.
Of course, an artist is often his fiercest critic, especially when it comes to their earlier works, as this description of one of Local Currency's few low points ("Soggy Girl") demonstrates: "Imitate Calvin Johnson over a borrowed Public Enemy cassette and gratuitous key changes? Sign me up." Bruno also makes unflattering mention of his penchant for arcane references (cf. the shout-out to "goddamn" Joseph Cornell on "In a Sourceless Light"), his less-than-robust singing voice, his more-than-robust vocabulary, and even, as he describes it, "my disinclination to distinguish between 'pop' and 'experimental,' thus resulting in releases no one could enjoy straight through." And while there are a small handful of examples on Local Currency where Bruno's impeccable melodic instincts clash less favorably with his more experimental impulses-- the mish-mash of feedback, lo-fi tape-splice chicanery, and all-but-spoken-word meandering on "About You I'd Ask" come to mind-- it's those potentially questionable digressions that inform and strengthen his more traditional verse-chorus work. As growing-pain portraits go, Local Currency is the sort of warts-and-all release that most songwriters would love to call their own.
In many ways, this compilation serves as a microcosm of Bruno's musical growth, running the gamut from his days fronting the power-poptastic Nothing Painted Blue (with "Wholly Heavy Heart" sounding just like a lost 0PB cut) to his modern-day dalliances with more traditional forms of songwriting (exhibited by the solo-piano Tin-Pan-Alleyisms of "News From Cupid"). In between these poles, Bruno offers some of the more thoughtful songs, love and otherwise, that the Amerindie underground had to offer. Bruno himself politely mocks this practice in one of the tunes here-- "The 101st", with the number in the title referring to the number of songs the narrator has written (or is about to write) about a certain special someone. But there's not much to mock if the songs in question are as heartbreaking as "Keeping the Weekend Free", or as despairing as "Pointless Triangle". Both these tunes were given flattering higher-fidelity interpretations by former Tsunami bandleader/Simple Machines labelhead Jenny Toomey-- the former on Liquorice's Listening Cap; the latter on Toomey's Bruno-abetted Tempting-- and while those versions might be prettier and shinier, there's something to be said for hearing these sentiments and songs in the writer's original voice.
What could get lost while admiring Bruno's lyrical knack is that his way with a tune, and his knack for getting form and fucntion to work together, is equally impressive. "In a Sourceless Light" finds Bruno playfully prodding someone who'd look better in the titular light-- "if your shadow didn't follow you around"-- with a chiming Rickenbacker echoing his spry wit, while "Shooting Past Me" is an embittered and eloquent kiss-off whose starkness feeds into the song's autumnal pallor. Bruno also manages to pull off a "pop"/"experimental" coup of sorts with "Medium of Exchange", melding one of his sweeter melodies and seemingly sweeter lyrics ("If I could wave a magic wand/ I would cross every lily pond") to a Frankensteinian backing track that's anything but sweet. Even when he tackles subjects less fraught with pathos, like his own medical misfortunes on the whimsical "Cat-Scratch Fever", there's no lacking for musical or lyrical cleverness-- it's rare for a track here not to offer the listener something worth holding onto.
In the decade-plus since the newest tune on this compilation was originally released, Franklin Bruno's songwriting has grown immeasurably, exchanging the more pronounced flourishes of skill and smarts with more subtle, yet no less effective, shows of intellectual force-- it's evident on Bruno's last solo album (A Cat May Look at a Queen), and on Civics, the first album from his new band, the Human Hearts. Some that are fond of the songs from Bruno's salad days might see this newer work as a step back from what's on display in Local Currency, while others are more in tune with where Bruno's muse is currently leading him. But regardless of where fans stand, it's safe to say that Bruno himself won't ever be complacent with what he's done-- in regards to the final track on Local Currency, "Dream Worth Dreaming", the usually effusive Bruno has only two words: "Still looking."
