These guys are trying to trick me. I'll bet they're really Irish folkies singing pretty little acoustic ballads. They're so earnest! How can I truly enjoy earnest? I already know what's going to happen: I'm going to recommend them, maybe play them for friends, and then be mocked as a sucker. "What is this Indigo Guys crap?" they'll all say, and I'll be banished from the halls of cool forever. Sure, I never belonged to begin with, but at least I once mouthed all the right prejudices and espoused all the right decadences. And I didn't listen to folky Irish singer/songwriters. They're trying to con me, these Turin Brakes.
Okay, they're English, but what's the difference? If it's on an island and it's acoustic guitars, it's either Francis Dunnery or Don Ho. Regardless, they've seduced me. Gale Paridjanian's smile beams from the back of the disc. And it's a hell of a smile. It melts my cynical heart. Ollie Knights' vocals mix Jeff Buckley moan and Marc Bolan hiss. The songs are simple, emotional, and earnest (I am such a fool!), and they're laden with Everly Brothers (or is it the Indigo Girls?) harmonies. The production captures the acoustic guitars in clean, highly polished amber with spare rhythm, letting the songs well up. Dear me, it's a pretty album, with a melancholy that's-- of course-- unaffected. It has a softness that soothes without deflating.
The lyrics are often simple. The chorus of "Underdog (Save Me)" goes, "Save me from myself." Sure, it's trite, but the harmonies make the desperation fresh and beautiful. On "State of Things," over a loping rhythm, they sing, "You and me/ Used to be on fire," capturing the mournful feeling of dying passion. The song drowns in regret beneath Knights' Buckley-like croon. I say Buckley-like because he's not actually aping, just finding some of the same chilling notes the Mystery White Boy wrested from some cosmic place. "The Road" has that same effect, and in a more uptempo vein, so does "Emergency 72." This song follows a well-worn descending progression, but Knights leaps from note to note delightfully. His articulation also emphasizes what a nice string of consonants and vowels is the number 72. Seventy-TWO! Seventy-TWO! Seventy-TWO! What other good numbers are there out there to write songs about? How about 806? Eight hundred and SIX! That would rock.
"Future Boy" does use the word "yonder." I've got you, Irish folkies! They slip away from that folk trap with images of science fiction and social decay. It includes the requisite "junkies/monkeys" rhyme, and the simple truth that "Syphilis is a bitch but contracting HIV is much worse," which is pretty hard to argue with. The song tells the story of a time traveler who goes back to rescue himself as a baby. Nice one.
"Slack" manages a midtempo rock, but "Starship" and "By TV Lights" drag. The latter ends with a mélange of TV sounds in the trail-off, reminiscent of Simon & Garfunkel's (who I also suspect are Irish, or from the 60's) "Silent Night/Six O'Clock News." This could be incriminating evidence, but of course, I also like Simon & Garfunkel, so file that away for context.
After the beautifully sad harmonies of "The Optimist" comes a bonus track. Hey, artists, we've been on to this tactic since "Train in Vain." Just list the tracks, already. For the record, it's a pretty, go-nowhere instrumental. The disc also includes a video for your computer. As we were often told in the 80's, video is the future for musicians, although it's more closely linked-- since we're all digital in the digital field, such bundling is inevitable, even after the compact disc goes the way of the acetate. When will the future Me come back in time and whisk the present Me to a world where these videos are worth a damn?
After a spell of listening to The Optimist LP, I shamefully boarded a plane to Ireland. There, on the green, grassy runway, were two young men playing acoustic guitars. Sure enough, it was Turin Brakes. I grabbed one-- it was Gale Paridjanian-- shook him and demanded, "Are you trying to con me? I really like your songs, but are they going to bore the pants off of my millions of readers?"
Paridjanian answered, "No, it's the real deal. Sure, we're secretly Irish folkies, but we threw in some drums and the songs will stay good. Enjoy yourself." Then he smiled, and I melted.
