If you're looking for evidence of Tim Cohen's transition from psych-rock everyman to honest-to-God balladeer, the signs have always been there. Almost all the songs he's written for the Fresh & Onlys are open-hearted, his sensitive songwriting and sincere vocal delivery augmenting the band's loud, often hard-charging sound. Last year's full-length Magic Trick and the Bad Blood EP found him inching toward a slower, softer approach; a few of those standouts were more likely to inspire a Conway Twitty comparison than anything related to the 13th Floor Elevators. Deciding to strip his name from the banner of his solo work, he's now rechristened himself Magic Trick, after his 2011 album of the same name. But, upgraded moniker aside, is Ruler of the Night any better than-- or really, any different from-- the work he's released under his own name?
The answer is mostly yes, though there are a few signposts pointing to his songwriting past. "Sunny" sounds like the Fresh & Onlys played on a shuffleboard deck, Cohen trading his Fender Stratocaster for an acoustic guitar and wild sparks shooting from the fretboard for the background vocals of Alicia Vanden Heuvel (also of Aislers Set) and Noell Cahill. If the more downcast "Weird Memory" had been written by his other group, it's likely the guitars would've been much louder. And closer "Say Your Name" is comparable to the Fresh & Onlys' "I'm a Thief", the final song on their 2010 collection Play It Strange. It isn't quite as climactic as the older track, but it's still a satisfying way to end a record.
The other tracks find Cohen forging a different path. It's hard to believe any Fresh & Onlys fan will listen to the ghostly, piano-led title track and claim to have seen it coming. Ruler of the Night's arrangements are surprisingly experimental, contrasting with the meat-and-potatoes of his main band's most recognizable work. There's guitar squall, there are drum machines, there's an autoharp, and there's the part in "Invisible at Midnight" where Heuvel and Cahill sound like an African children's choir over spirited clapping. Reverb is heavily applied on many of the songs, giving things a sleepy feel ("Next to Nothing") or coming off like sailing through a tunnel of love with an ethereal keyboard line emerging from the other end.
Magic Trick's songs are about atmosphere, the feeling of the voices and howls from down the street. As a lyricist, Cohen surveys the expanse leveled by heartbreak and assesses the damage. There's nothing overly abstract here, but then, there's nothing especially specific: He falls into a kind of bland middle ground. Most of the characters in the songs are relegated to weird memories, or they're pouting in the corner and being goaded into giving the protagonist a smile. For instance, there's the four-to-the-floor intro that leads into the tender "Ruby", Cohen emphatically expressing that he doesn't want his intended to cry, though he doesn't offer any other alternatives. And that's the part where Magic Trick doesn't work: much of the album is placed on the shoulders of the vivid arrangements, but the songs themselves are given less meaning. Fewer generalities and a more interesting narrative would have gone a long way: For all the sharp, intriguing musical experimentation, the lyrics are too easy to forget.
