Most reviews of the 2001 collaboration between Michael Gira and Dan Matz, What We Did, focused, understandably, on the former's perspective. After all, Gira has steeped himself in the intensity of his musical projects, Swans and the Angels of Light, for the better part of two decades. Matz' work with his own (still extant) band Windsor for the Derby retains much less renown. What We Did marked a shift away from the Swans' thunderous intensity and the Derby's dronescapes, towards more conventional pop songwriting. Now Matz' solo work as The Birdwatcher continues the trend.
The second in a trilogy of albums, Afternoon Tales the Morning Never Knew follows The Darkest Hour Is Just Before the Dawn, and will presumably be complemented by another thematic LP focusing on dusk and the night. The Birdwatcher bears all the hallmarks of singer/songwriter-produced music: progressive song structure, careful development, and a consistent sound environment. Matz plays folky ballads infused with elegant lyricism and pop melodies, like a less spacy version of his labelmate Illyah Kuryahkin. He composes songs with a small array of instruments-- acoustic and electric guitars, synthesizers and drums, mostly-- and has a smart sense of restraint. This, unfortunately, is possibly the reason that the album as a whole is kind of dull.
"Afternoon Tales" opens with ringing chimes much like those of Spanish enviro-folksters Mus, soon layered over with acoustic strums and soft, clicking percussion. Matz breathes over the top a sighing "aaahhh" that repeats until the mood becomes rather doleful. Then "Empty Boat" clears the air with a light, pumping organ groove, and Anna Neighbor backs up Matz with her sweet voice on the verses. The lyrics are easily evocative: "Flying now, over top of me/ I'm grafted to the floor/ An empty boat, there's no stopping me/ On the trusting sea, I'm sunken on your shore." Complete with handclaps, it's a cutesy song, but it also drifts along on a contemplative atmosphere.
That vibe gets picked up again on "A Thousand Ants," one of the record's more affecting moments. In an interview, Matz mentioned that this song is about Gibsonton, a small town in Florida with a higher freak quotient than the usual. Having been a Floridian for two decades, I'm not sure what he means when he sings, "In the hot Florida sun, you always find what you seek"-- surely one of the strange virtues of the state is that there's always yet another townie inlet you've never heard of. Backed only by blues chords on the acoustic, Matz' lonesome voice sounds endearingly matter-of-fact; it's when his pronouncements are more heavy-handed that he falters. One song later, on "Country Music," he's laboring over a banjo and singing with all dramatic honesty that "country music never lies/ It always tells the truth." Right.
Overall, Afternoon Tales the Morning Never Knew is competent, and intimate in a way that parallels peeping through someone's diary. Such illicit actions have their downside, though, and like the bluster of many personal journals, Matz tackles his subjects too literally at times. His delivery is so forced on many of these tracks that it draws your attention away from the thoughtful lyrics. I holed up in a corner office during a lunch break on a demanding day at work recently, and decided to give The Birdwatcher one last chance, to catch something I'd maybe missed before. I fell asleep.
