Amy Klein has always come across as a force of extreme positivity in all of her artistic endeavors, whether it be as the grinning rhythm guitarist for Titus Andronicus or as the thoughtful activist author of a multitude of poems, personal essays, and critiques she has self-published or had published in esteemed outlets over the years. Taking all of this together is what makes it so difficult to accept that her solo debut doesn’t come close to delivering upon these promises. It’s a lot like listening to your friend’s band in college: You have several great conversations with this person; you share a lot of the same interests in art, literature, and film, and you’re so proud to see your friend up onstage that you overlook the imperfections of the performance when you first see the band live. You just want it to be good, but it is not.
That’s exactly what’s going on with Fire, and it’s frustrating. Klein’s band, which includes Sandy Davis on bass, Yoed Nir on cello, and Colin Brooks on drums (who also played in Leda, a previous project that Klein led), sounds proficient enough, but Klein’s jangly rhythm guitar is too high in the mix. The band are at their best when the jangle drops out and they work through instrumental interludes, like on “Yes Men,” which scorches like ‘70s Crazy Horse, and incidentally includes Klein’s strongest vocal performance on the album. The album was produced, engineered, and mixed by Kevin McMahon, who has done powerhouse production work on all of the Titus albums, in addition to working with dozens of other indie rock royalty of previous eras such as the Walkmen, Swans, and French Kicks, but you wouldn’t know it from here. The levels are a distractingly big problem here: When you set the volume at the beginning of the album, you’ll need to lower it again when Klein’s karaoke-level vocal comes in. Where her voice has always been strong as a writer, her voice as a singer doesn’t hold up to the scrutiny that placing it this high in the mix invites. Putting her voice so front-and-center may showcase her artistic bravery, but it also removes the evocative mystery that defined Klein's vocals on previous productions like Hilly Eye and even her own solo demos.
Thematically, Fire seems to deal with coming of age a lot, but the lyrics don’t feel as precise as Klein’s written poetry, and often devolve into cuteness, cliché, or general clunkiness. On the title track she inexplicably paraphrases “The Boys of Summer,” and on “Ocean Grove,” she relays that “Hope works down at the pizza place/she’s giving up.” Klein’s melodies are sometimes memorable, like on the chorus of “Twenty-Seven,” but some of the songs feel like everybody laid down their basic tracks, and then a few days later Klein brought in her poetry book and just tried to force every single syllable of pre-written words into the songs, discovering the melody as she went along. Lead single, “American City” is a prime example of this.
This would be a much better album if somebody had just stepped up and encouraged Klein to revisit the mix, and give the vocals one more shot. Maybe she can do just this, as we are living in the Kanye era of album revision. But until that happens, Fire stands as a lesson to actually tell your college friends who play in bands that their music may sound good for a demo, but you have some suggestions for when they go into the studio for real. You just want it to be good.
