For a year or so, a friend of mine lived next to David Grubbs. Because he shared a wall with the avant folkie, he never dared listen to anything by one of his favorite bands, Gastr del Sol-- not even Crookt, Crackt or Fly. I thought his neurosis was fairly amusing, especially because I couldn't imagine those nimble Grubbs/O'Rourke outtakes passing through the ancient Brooklyn plaster. (No, not even the loud parts.) And though said friend has long since relocated to a different, shadier part of the borough, if he had remained opposite the man behind A Guess at the Riddle, I'd tell him to buck up and blast Grubbs' fourth solo album as loudly as he wanted to, since even when Grubbs opts to amp things here, the results seem so spidery and fragile.
For the past decade plus, Grubbs has donned a number of hats. There were his raucous Louisville days with the mathy Bastro and the distorted power-pop of Squirrel Bait. Later, he moved to Chicago where he would cut the aforementioned Gastr LPs with O'Rourke, as well as a couple of classy solo records and Pythagorean punk-slaps with Tony Conrad, Pauline Oliveros, and Arnold Dreyblatt, among others. And finally, upon arriving in New York, he presented a split-down-the-middle 12-inch with Animal Collective wood sprite Avey Tare and a disc with outer-realms guitarist Loren Connors.
On A Guess at the Riddle, Grubbs eases further into the deep-end of his pristine poppiness-- which is not to say that our master of ceremonies has left behind off-color time signatures, spacy repetitions, or heady lyrical introversion. Even with his tempered outbursts restrained, and despite the lyrical hail storms, this is Grubbs' most straightforward and upbeat album.
The album's countless references to precipitation may hide the answer to its title's riddle. Perhaps it's something to do with the weather (inside and outside), and the loneliness or beauty that can spring from sporadic rain showers and shifts in clouds? Or not. But even if Grubbs is just being rhetorical, a close reading of the lyric sheet reveals that during "A Cold Apple", Hilda consumes icy fruit on "an equally cold/ On an equally bright/ Absolutely sunshot/ To-be-savored Sunday morning." Likewise, there's a "forecast for cloudy skies" on the ebullient Eggs-veined opener, "Knight Errant". In the Rick Moody-penned "Wave Generators", the Ice Storm author mentions a delay of game due to the poetry of "icicle fringe" and frozen creeks. Elsewhere, there are eclipses and barometric swoons. "Hurricane Season" (another by Moody) features a "hurricane town, bleached white/ Under black convectionary clouds."
Musically, this lengthy Sufjan Stevens cacophony spins out electronically, spreading wings and becoming its namesake with the help of guesting electronic duo Matmos. Even the Mayo Thompson cover "Magnificence as Such" gets in on the rain dance with "foghorns on foggy days" as the backdrop for a walk in the countryside wherein the protagonist is struck by the beauty of light reflected off soot. But you don't need words to feel the wind! And so even the majority of the instrumentals partake in the cloudgazing: "Rosie Ruiz" finds Grubbs on electric guitar and computer, making Moody's icicles of sound. The fittingly titled final track, "Coda (Breathing)", proffers deep listening with its swirling harmonium and Steve Roden's minimalist processing.
As on all of his projects, when Grubbs looks for outside help, he assembles a free-range bumper-crop: Adam Pierce of Mice Parade plays drums, as does Calexico collaborator Thomas Belhom. Bar/None vocalist Hannah Marcus doubles in the background, and a bevy of European improv folks like cellist Nikos Veliotis add atmosphere. Finally, Norwegian electronic musician and visual artist Kim Hiorthoy places cumulous formations and blackened raindrops (and arcs and swoons) on the cover sleeve.
So now that I've established the forecast, do the songs work? Yes and no. A number of the earlier tracks-- especially the first quartet-- are spot-on and engaging, but roughly halfway through the record, Grubbs squanders this momentum for arty ponderousness. The off-Broadway piano ditty "Your Neck in the Woods" snores, and the decidedly tame Matmos collaboration "You'll Never Tame Me" is nothing but a noodle fest. Additionally, Grubbs is sometimes so precise in his articulation that the work lacks a properly ragged soul. So, no, A Guess at the Riddle doesn't quite amaze. Nitpicking though I may be, Grubbs' follow-up to Rickets & Scurvy displays a vibrant palette that, despite some duds, offers several slices of inventive and exploratory pop. Just don't forget your umbrella.
