Conjure this portrait: a skinny, corduroy-clad kid, folded up on his or her childhood bedspread, picking at a cheap acoustic guitar and clicking awkward beats into an oversized laptop, red-faced and breathless with the notion of original creation. If nothing else, the image of the humble bedroom troubadour is one of the greatest equalizers in pop music: almost every successful musician started somewhere, cramped, goofy, and cross-legged on beige carpet. The trick is knowing when to bundle up your gear, inch down the hallway, and creep cautiously out the front door to broaden your scope, your skills, and your means.
Having bravely abandoned the scrappy pings and whistles of his Playstation-heavy solo debut, Royal City's Jim Guthrie has finally dragged his guitar out into the open, opting to indulge in some bold studio bluster and multi-instrumental antics for his latest release, the fulsome Now, More Than Ever. Fulfilling the promise of his last full-length, 2002's Morning Noon Night, Guthrie's new album proves he can successfully scramble up the lo-fi ladder without sacrificing any of his quirky charm. The disc, in fact, marks a unique moment of catharsis for the songwriter; Jim Guthrie has left the bedroom.
It's tricky to address Guthrie's maturation without unintentionally belittling his earlier work; 2000's A Thousand Songs was hasty, skittish, and alarmingly energetic, its moments of idiosyncratic brilliance often overshadowed by self-referential giggles. Now, More Than Ever is hardly glossed to perfection (there are still a handful of broken plates, squeaky tiles, and toys exploding in the background), but it nonetheless provides a slightly more substantial pedestal for Guthrie's getting-stronger-by-the-second songwriting. The record's approach is docile, but its impact is immediate: this is an album packed with gorgeous, intricate pop songs, carried by Guthrie's plaintive whispers and delicate strums.
With a battalion of able players backing him up (check the impeccable string swells here, lovingly arranged by Owen Pallett of Toronto's Hidden Cameras, or the shimmering banjo shakes on "Problems with Solutions", carefully played by The Constantines' Bry Webb), Guthrie's songs occasionally evoke the versatile billowing of Sufjan Stevens, or the Byrds-ish croon of The Clientele. "All Gone" shudders open with a chorus of yawning, suspense-heavy strings, each nervous yelp bending back in favor of a soft melody and Guthrie's obtuse poetics ("The forest needs the fire/ Like the fire needs the tree/ Can you make something out of nothing?"). "So Small" is a loping, unpretentious rumination on mortality, gently layered over bleating horns, jangly piano, and a nervously plucked violin.
For most of this record, subtle apprehension rules: despite its perfectly established prettiness, an unspoken anxiety still hovers, each careful arrangement belying a strange urgency-- meticulously bowed violins descend into feedback-heavy outburts, stretches of calm somersault into chaos. These kinds of dualities pervade the album; Now, More Than Ever is both hushed and sprawling, serene and agitated, jumpy and constant. Even if the phrase "Canadian indie pop" rouses your skeptical, hype-resistant scowl from its post-New Years snooze, the lush, orchestral puffs of Now, More Than Ever should prove undeniable: Jim Guthrie's sweet, fertile pop deserves all the praise it gets.
