Ever since I moved to Chicago I've been running into famous people. John Cusack and Catherine Zeta- Jones are filming a movie right down my street. I placed a web of red lasers up and down Damen at knee's height hoping to see Zeta- Jones' athletically- wrapped booty sliding under them. Unfortunately, I've mostly bumped into indie- rock "icons." Like last Wednesday when I went to go see "The Phantom Menace. Uberproducer Steve Albini (who you won't know as the producer of Tar, but more likely as the producer of Nirvana and Page & Plant) and his legion of jumpsuited studio drones sat next to me.
As we waited anxiously for the 20th Centuty Fox drumroll we were subjected to the piped MovieTunez that theatres P.A. into unwilling, captive ears. I listened to Albini's comments hoping to find a soundbyte to quote for a review. I wondered what a notoriously anti- major label wiseguy (who apparently does not carry his elitist attitude over into other media areas, as he was in line on Day One for "Star Wars") would have to say about the likes of the Dixie Chicks, Train, and Britney Spears. At some point, Ben Folds Five's lastest radio single drifted out. Immediately, Albini groaned and chimed in with his faux- Folds falsetto "I am laaame!"
Ho ho! I didn't need Albini's reassurance to sway me into assailing Ben Folds latest offering, but it was nice to know that someone else was on my side. You can figure out what every note on this album will sound like faster than you can spit out the forgettable, awkward title. The Unauthorized Biography of Reinhold Messner sounds like a droll A&E; special. Fittingly, Ben Folds now markets his buttery pop towards that same A&E; demographic of old white people and lazy college kids who believe they're getting art. The song that Albini sang along to (which was called "Army," not "I am Lame," as previously suspected) sounded like a cross between bad Billy Joel and Vaudeville. Let me repeat that... Billy Joel. Vaudeville. This doesn't even come close to touch "good," friends.
Some attempt to throw credibility at Ben Folds simply because he's-- gasp-- playing a piano. Ben Folds still sprinkles his lyrics three albums into his career with a "redneck" here, a "mullet" there, and a "fuck" every now and then and thinks he's a) funny, and b) edgy. The score is 0-2.
The album opens up on a promising note with the over- the- top, Queen-ish "Narcolepsy." Big dumb strings, thundering drums, and operatic choruses usher in a new direction for Ben Folds. Quickly Folds retreats to the sad, safe sounds of "Brick" for the rest of the album, save for a somewhat funky "Your Redneck Past" (He he! There's that word again! He's a reg-u-lar Jeff Foxworthy!) and some answering machine message instrumental (those are always keepers). Quite simply, the fart- fuzz bass and twinkling piano formula doesn't lend itself to musical ingenuity and variety-- this trio has run out of ideas. Sure, Ben Folds once penned some delicious pop songs. Too bad they were all on the first album. But let's face it-- tongue- in- cheek artists have such a short shelflife. Amd at least the Dead Milkmen never had their music played in elevators and over slides of "Try a large, delicious Popcorn."
