Walking up the steps after a cigarette, thinking about an intimate evening with the Hippie, I heard the birds. Not the birds who live in my windowsill; the birds that live in the clock in the bathroom. It was six o'clock and the Northern Bluebirds' calls were strong and clear. Coming to the stairs, I could hear Oddities chirping in a way all its own. As I ascended the staircase toward Spring Heel Jack, the songs of the Northern Bluebirds began to merge, melding in a most intriguing way. With each step, the joyous birdsong became softer and the primal electronica of Oddities grew more dominant, finally grinding the birds to silence at the top of the steps.
In the kitchen making dinner, chopping avocado and scallion, I heard the phone ring. It was my friend, the opera singer. He began to tell me about his programs, his singing, and his women. His voice, trained to be powerful, began to linger with Oddities, which was playing in a boombox a few feet away. Opera voice and sharp electronic tones did battle between the sides of my brain. His voice, powerful and molasses-smooth, demanded attention with a velvet handgrip, but Oddities bludgeoned me with mechanical attacks in forward and reverse-- stretched and crushed beats and synth blasts. I shut off the player, sat down, and talked to my opera-singing buddy.
The stereo's got a disc changer that'll play forever. You can fill it with music and just let it play. The other night, after the first disc of Yesyears played out, Oddities began. The Hippie and I were eating animal crackers and talking about the zucchini plants. She was topless, I was aroused. "Root" began to build, massaging my member with beats that were building... building... toward a climax. The zucchini hasn't been doing as well as it should. We discussed what could be done to save them as "Root" fell apart in tumbling pile of mislaid beats. I felt the blood rushing back to my head.
I sat up here on the third floor, two fans running, writing this review. The speakers were blasting Oddities. I was smiling because somehow, Oddities has crept in. A long time ago, I wrote a disparaging review of Spring Heel Jack's 68 Million Shades and there was still a residue of that sentiment when Oddities came in the mail, but it has far surpassed my expectations. Made up of music from the private collection of John Coxon and Ashley Wales, Oddities**density of all the tracks is impressive.
While not a terribly listenable album, the tracks that have beats are excellent and the ones that don't keep you guessing. The six-table "BBC Radio 3" gets tedious but it's courteously nestled at the end of the album, where only the truly strong dare tread. Don't bother if you're looking for drum-n-bass, though. Oddities is often beatless and would be more of a frustration than pleasure. Primal and strange, but so perfectly so, Oddities is for those seeking to mix abstraction with birdcalls.
