Man, do I hate Sammy Sosa. I hate his damn fool ten-minute long post-home run interpretive dance. I hate his damn fool TV commercials for his damn fool video game ("It's soo reeeeeal!!!"). I hate his damn fool "I love baseball! I'm friends with everybody!" locker room interviews. And I still hate Sammy Sosa, even now that he's surprisingly begun making strange slow-core records on his home computer. With all his millions of dollars, you would think he could afford some better... [squinting] hey, wait a second, this says Saso, not Sosa. Damn this dyslexia!
Well, I don't know nothing about this Saso, but the name conjures images of a Chris Kattan-like male stripper, if you say it with enough flash. The liner notes don't help any, as it's unclear whether the Saso entity is a group ("instrumentation and arrangements by Saso"), or the solitary project of one man ("music/noises and words by Jim Lawler") and his budget-class recording equipment. The Saso website is no help, either, consisting mainly of not-very-original modem-crashing Shockwave design. Even a Google search failed me, providing only the name of Saso Janfuski, a "chorus" performer on some Pink Floyd tribute album from 2000.
The music on Big Group Hug is just as mystifying, since Saso himself/itself doesn't appear to know what the hell he/it is. The opening title track is a washed-out canvas of melancholy pop with Yorkeishly high vocals floating over a soft bed of simple acoustic guitar, keyboards, and lightly tapped drums. But the second track, "Bird Brain," is a lengthy and stagnant instrumental that, at one point, head-scratchingly throws in a "Seinfeld" sample. And "Blood Bath" switches gears again, with diet Neu!. What gives?
One clue to Saso's identity may lie in the sonic continuity between the album's ten songs-- namely, the mid-fi bedroom-recluse feel. Most instruments are recorded as if from under a pillow, with the tone uniformly fuzzy and warm like a Rhodes electric piano. Songs are usually left sparse: "Dimwit" and "All My Life" appear drumless, while "Dripfeed" contains little more than piano and voice.
But one could argue that things are left overly scanty, as the majority of the album breezes by without leaving any debris lodged in my memory. The instrumental tracks generally don't do enough to justify their existence, and the melodramatic vocals on "Somebody" aren't much of an improvement. Occasionally, however, this Saso produces some ear-catching sounds, like the Vespertine music box opening of "My Brain Hurts," and the unexpected stomp in the middle of "Lazy Bones."
Too bad these elements aren't packaged into actual songs instead of coming across as a series of portfolio pieces for somebody's potential producer(s)/bandmate(s). Looking for that woody, organic, intimate Microphones sound, but can't afford Phil Elvrum? Call Saso! He or They is cheap! Unless, of course, Saso really is Sosa. I wouldn't put it past the bastard.
