I've always been a big fan of the blokes who keep a lower profile in a band. Call it the George Harrison Rule, as the Quiet Beatle perfectly represents what I'm talking about: a couple songs per album, contributions more instrumental than vocal, rare appearances in the publicity circus. Every era's got 'em, from John Entwistle to Richard Manuel to Mick Jones to Lee Ranaldo to Tobin Sprout. As a properly quiet and shy indie rock guy, I can't help but have a soft spot for such shadowmen, who never seem to get the credit they deserve until they're gone or, in the case of the first two, found dead in hotel rooms.
Unfortunately for Jason Loewenstein, the Harrison Rule does not automatically apply. In fact, I stopped caring about Sebadoh right about the time Loewenstein started contributing close to the same number of songs as uneasy frontman Lou Barlow. Perhaps Barlow all too easily remembered his power struggles with J Mascis back in those sepia-toned Dinosaur Jr days, and compensated by allowing his own dictatorship to slide into editor-less democracy. Whatever the behind-the-scenes situation, when the hushed beauty of choice Barlow melancho-llege rock tracks like "Beauty of the Ride" were lost in juxtaposition to Loewenstein's sack of power chords and "whoooaaaa baby I'm not a MIND readahhh!" bellow, I lost interest.
Now that Sebadoh seems to be retired and nearly eligible for a bronze bust in the Indie Hall of Fame, Loewenstein's taken his latest batch of mood-breakers and collected them for a debut solo album. Sorry to say, At Sixes and Sevens shows little-to-no evolution from his makeout-session-ruining songs on Harmacy. While the record might have had some throwback potential (seeing as Loewenstein has yet to move on from Seattle circa 1993), the contents are nowhere near quality enough to kick off that grunge revival we'll all know is right around the corner when "That 90's Show" premieres on Fox.
Loewenstein's problems seem to spring from a penchant for textbook hard rock and an almost astonishing lack of range, failings that are amplified by his choice to record all of At Sixes and Sevens' instrumentation himself. Track one, "Codes", is reasonable enough with its thick guitar chug, canter speed, and what might be the obligatory kiss-off lyrics, but after ten more variations on the same theme, even a brisk forty-minute album starts to drag. For a time-killer, you might internally debate which is more unremarkable: Loewenstein's double-tracked flannel shirt vocals or his close-to-uniformly forgettable melodies ("Circles" being the sole exception).
The rare deviation does indicate much growth potential, as the less distortion-pedal reliant "I'm a Shit" (hey there, Tad, where you been?) and "More Drugs" come off as Acme-brand imitation Barlow. Meanwhile, the instrumental "H/M" is just about as pointless as Harmacy's "Hillbilly II", and the hyper-Latin of track six made me scrawl "sounds like drunk Santana" in my mental notebook before finding out the track really was called "Crazy Santana." Could've been a Signs-like holy phenomenon, of course, but I'm more inclined to think it was creative laziness. Or creative limitations. Either way, At Sixes and Sevens makes the case that Loewenstein is best suited to a role as a sideman-- the completely silent kind.
