Sometimes I think I'm really missing things. It's not that I'm unobservant or a fuckwit or anything. But sometimes events pass me by as I'm gazing, no doubt, at something far less exciting. For instance, I found out the best place to score drugs in my neighborhood isn't the street corner (as HBO would have you believe) but rather the upscale hair salon. Yes, hidden behind the Paul Mitchell hair care products, there are baggies galore of all your pharmaceutical faves.
When I was growing up, the barber (my town enforced a strict "no hair stylist" policy) might mutter as he was buzz-cutting the little annoying hairs on your neck, "Anything for the weekend, sir?" By this, he did not mean a few twists of whizz or a coupla tabs. Nope, he meant rubbers. In fact, his crazy prophylactics were displayed on a cardboard dispenser. The dispenser had wee hooks on it which held aloft the johnnies. Printed on the cards were a really fast car and some woman in a bikini (0 to last base in 9 seconds or less-- not the image of the unselfish lover that might have been portrayed). You could gauge whether my town's male population was getting horny by how much of the image had been revealed since you last sat in the barber's chair. No one missed a thing back then.
But somehow I missed the Delgados' transition from record label-owning stars-in-their-own-right to record label-owning prog-rock wannabes. The Delgados, as well as providing shelter for the immensely boozed-up talents of Arab Strap, Suckle and Mogwai with their aptly-titled Chemikal Underground Records, released a delicate wisp of Scottish indie-pop entitled Peloton. That album nearly gave itself a double hernia with all the imaginative songs and production sleights it gamely bore.
Now the band follows up the greatest Scottish record since the Nectarine No. 9's A Sea with Three Stars with the ponderously self-conscious, woefully proggy The Great Eastern. Remember how disappointed you were when Belle and Sebastian followed up If You're Feeling Sinister with The Boy with the Arab Strap? Well, here's the reprise.
In flagrant disobedience to the teachings contained in The Urban Buddhist's Handbook, I do not seek out disappointment. It's quite happy seeking me out, truth be told. The Great Eastern is the teeth-gnashing, lip-biting sound of a talented band reveling in studio time and awkward time signature changes. At this point, I'd like to let it be known that I've never divined the so-called appeal of Steely Dan. The Delgados probably love the quirky jazz changes that Fagan and Becker whack off in. Me, if it's got guitars in it, it'd better be in the style of either Iggy & the Stooges' Raw Power or Love's Forever Changes.
To be fair, The Great Eastern doesn't show off in 15/8 compound time, though there are enough jarring transitions from 4/4 to waltzing \xBE. But one has to wonder why the band felt compelled to create some highly-wrought art when the simple directness of Peloton endeared itself limpit-like to my heart. Did the band members marry each other and turn their thoughts to creating immortal representations of their late thirty-something selves? Did they think they could out-wank Sonic Youth? Could be.
Or maybe they bought hook-line-and-sinker the critics' fawning adoration and decided to give back real music with real musical significance. Sadly, this entails empty, platitudinous support of innovations such as speed garage and techstep drum-n-bass. For crying out loud, people, that's the only reason the Pastels exist-- so that NME and Magnet can drone on that real musicians remain unrecognized and tirelessly bemoan that the public adores stringy ginger-bearded geekatrons with PowerBooks running FuckmeElectro Version 7.46.
Which is pretty much the reason why The Great Eastern doesn't execute well. It works too damn hard. The most seductive indie pop fluffers have been the Smiths' The Queen is Dead, Belle and Sebastian's Tigermilk, and the Stone Roses' self-titled album. James, Inspiral Carpets, and the Manic Street Preachers have fallen by the wayside, and with good reason.
Unhinged from the huge Abacab-era Phil Collins drum sound, The Great Eastern's opening track, "The Past That Suits You Best," would sound as pretty as a Spring rainfall on a Scottish glen. The band overburdens the simple beauty of "Accused of Stealing" with jarring time changes. On "American Trilogy," however, the band captures the right blend of gently strummed guitars and overblown symphonic strings with tubular bells. The middle section even hints at the fey end of grunge, which is echoed in the line, "No one can depress me more than I can." "Reasons for Silence (Ed's Song)" showcases Emma Pollock's dreamy, pastoral vocals in a song that Nick Drake might have recognized from his Bryter Layter album.
Pollack duets with Alun Woodward on "Thirteen Gliding Principles" as they trade half lines ("Lock the door/ Wash the floors/ Shine the shine") until Metallica-esque heavy riffing and orchestral accompaniment barge their way into the domestic arrangements. Fortunately, that track is followed by the subdued piano figures and mournful cello of "No Danger." Woodward lullabies, "Now I've got to choose/ Who from you is gonna lose and who is going through." The responsibility weighs on him: "We don't know we're strong enough and now we're singing out of tune." After a brief reprise of the opening tranquillity, the band's rock tendencies steam in to rip up the peace. Pity.
I understand that the band didn't want to release Peloton II. Nonetheless, it sounds like the Delgados threw their charming, sweetly laughing baby out with the bathwater and replaced it with all manner of musical flummery. Absurdly, they've gilded (or steel-girdered) a fragile lily. I hope I don't allow any stripped-down version to pass me by.
