Tex Crick is a man of few words. You’re less likely to know the keyboard player from his instrumental solo project than you are the many appearances he’s made over the past few years with indie luminaries from his native Australia and beyond. Although most well-known as a member of Kirin J Callinan’s band, Crick has navigated a twisty, pleasantly variegated career path —adding a citric piano line to Traffik Island’s “Sunday Painter” here, covering “Moonlight Shadow” in Weyes Blood’s band there. His one solo record so far, 2017’s largely instrumental psych set Between Cruel & Tender, suggested a wry, virtuosic sensibility behind the long list of credits. But for the most part, Crick’s enviable CV—add Connan Mockasin and Iggy Pop and South Coast punks the Pinheads to the list—paints a picture of a versatile, reliable musician.
Live In… New York City establishes him as just that: a magnetic and decidedly old-fashioned crooner, whose playfully composed love songs radiate warmth and familiarity. Years as a sideman have not diminished Crick’s ability to command an audience, though contrary to what the title implies, this is not an actual live album. As the first artist to release a non-Mac Demarco album on Mac Demarco’s label, Crick projects a self-assuredness beyond his years, displaying a canny knowledge of when to step into the spotlight and when to hang back. The result is a record with the ingenuity of a debut and all the easygoing charm of a classic.
That restraint comes in handy more than a few times on Live In… New York City. Crick’s production largely abandons the lush psych of Between Cruel & Tender in favor of the genial, piano-led pop of ’70s greats like Randy Newman and Harry Nilsson. The short instrumental passages towards the record’s back half in particular—“Spinster St. I” and “Spinster St. II,” with their duetting clarinet and piano parts—echo the more wistful moments of Newman’s film scores. Crick is in tune with this feather-touch vibe: the possibilities suggested by an ambling piano line gently fading out, the power and warmth of a well-placed horn section, and the resonance of a good cliche, like “I’m achin’ for ya!” dropped right as a song reaches its apex.
All three of those things appear on the centerpiece “Sometimes I Forget.” It and direct follow-up “Peaches & Cream” are pretty much the only songs on the album where Crick discernibly uses more than five or six instrumental tracks, and, fittingly, they arrive around halfway through, serving as emotional anchors. “Peaches & Cream” is also the only song on the record with distinct, changing verses, as opposed to repeated hooks and phrases. Placed at the center of an album that rarely demands attention, only politely asks for it, it’s a big swing into wide-grinning showmanship, and it works precisely because Crick doesn’t overuse the style. He sings a little like Arthur Russell at his poppiest, but elsewhere, he actually recalls Cass McCombs circa-Mangy Love—practically mumbling lyrics like “Sweet darlin, you’re always on my mind,” and, “Oh, the way you make me feel, it’s so unnatural” like a rockstar preparing a stadium show without wanting to strain his voice. This understated style gives Live In… New York City a homespun intimacy, as if Crick is happily but self-consciously playing these songs for just you.
The “live” here refers not to the album’s format, but its tenor. This is a studio album that celebrates the most wondrous parts of just being alive and in love, alive and just hanging about, alive and playing music, alive and being surrounded by the hustle and bustle of a new, endlessly fascinating city. Crick wrote and recorded the record during a period of living in the New York training as a piano repairman, and many of the songs are set to a faint buzz of the sounds of the city, including recordings taken of the patrons at jazz bars Crick would frequent. New York is both culturally and geographically one of the absolute furthest places in the world from Australia, and this element of Crick’s production reflects the romantic, eye-opening wonder of moving to a place that feels sprung from the furthest corners of your imagination, when even the ambient buzz of its nightlife feels like a melody. These moments on Live In… New York City are just as important as the more distinct segments, and when Crick takes the spotlight—whether with a piano line or a vocal line—it feels earned, respectful of the fact that Crick is just one character in a sea of many. That is the crux of Crick’s artistry: a few words, done well.
Buy: Rough Trade
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