I don't know much about the man who writes Twin Shadow songs, but the man in them doesn't really seem like a good dude. In fact, he's a total dick most of the time. "I don't want to believe or be in love," was George Lewis Jr.'s climactic mission statement on "Slow", and the rest of Forget negated its new romantic sounds with accounts of people who chose to ignore his warning. There was the girl who promised to "never let another black boy break [her] heart" and became the subject of "Tyrant Destroyed", and then there was the partner in crime on "Shooting Holes", who took her father's gun and was sworn into secrecy. And as a message to the fellas, there was "I Can't Wait", where Lewis stole your girl from right under your armpit because she hated your moves, the implication being that she was going to love his.
This persona played a huge role in distinguishing Forget, despite much evidence of it being wholly of Brooklyn, ca. 2010: Pretty in Pink sonic nostalgia, a cosign from Grizzly Bear, smeared cover art. But in light of brash interviews and surprisingly torrid live shows, Lewis' careerist ambition, pretty boy swagger, and leering libido made clear he was not long for the world of back-patting, hand-holding indie rock. You might find the bad-boy posturing on Confess' cover too blatant in announcing Lewis' arrival as a self-identifying pop idol, but he refuses to apologize for anything here: not his brash lyrics, laser-focused songwriting, or glossy production. It's a purposefully arrogant star turn that would otherwise be insufferable if Confess didn't make it abundantly clear that Lewis is one of the few guys out there capable of living up to it.
He's adjusting his role models to fit the situation, staying within the 80s but moving from the Psychedelic Furs and Simple Minds. Instead, he's taking *Purple Rain, Born in the U.S.A. *and Lost Boys as guides. We're talking leather jackets, sullen glowers, salvation through hit-making. And Confess aspires to the excess of the Reagan years, when all genres were competing for the same MTV slots and the production on pop, rock, and R&B records was essentially the same. But while Confess is slick, it doesn't sound slavishly retro or expensive; in fact, there's a eerie, disembodied artificiality to many of these sounds.
Lewis' rangy vocals rightfully remain at the forefront-- sultry and vulnerable in their lower reaches, with a clarion burst in its higher notes that recalls both Peter Gabriel and TV on the Radio's Tunde Adebimpe. But nearly every other sound is so crisp and airless that they become compellingly dehumanized. The snares during the disparaging chorus of "Golden Light" hit like open-hand slaps or a glass of cold water to the face, and harsh digital clipping on the kick drums and vocals express the claustrophobic lust of "You Call Me On". "I Don't Care" underlines the startling cruelty of its lyrics with a coda of grunts. "The One" is a rare moment of devotion communicated with blinding acoustic glare, while the exaggerated courtship of "Beg For the Night" accents its chorus with the utmost of new-money sounds, the orchestra hit.
On a purely sonic level, Confess will tell you "greed is good," and it's underlined by the economy of the songwriting, which shows a clear progression from the occasionally stunning but unbalanced Forget. The 10 songs on Confess operate only in power moves, the verses sneering, seducing, doing whatever they can to draw the listener in before every choruses ascends and explodes. Having recorded nearly all of Confess by himself, you hear a perfectionist's internal competition in Lewis, each song subject to merciless editing to assure that if he realizes the death wish alluded to in the "Five Seconds" video, he'll leave a beautiful corpse and a record of 10 fail-proof singles. It's textbook, time-honored stuff, but it's rarely done at this level. Whether it's the lush power-balladry of "Beg For the Night" and "Be Mine Tonight" or throttle-pushing rockers like "You Call Me On", Confess is defined by its melodic and emotional immediacy. This is no where more evident than it is on the cyclical refrain of the all-hook single "Five Seconds"-- "straight to the heart."
The ruthless efficiency extends to the lyrics, and this is what ultimately gives Confess its edge, pushing it into something more illicitly alluring. It's indeed a hyper-masculine record, almost every single lyric occurring at a relationship flashpoint between Lewis and a royal female "you" whose lust only confirms her misunderstanding of him. Combined with his refusal to sugarcoat anything, the first instinct is to assume it's a misogynist record as well, but Confess isn't macho or "bro." The songs are about dishonesty and what is revealed in desiring love but acting out of lust. The arrangement of "Golden Light" takes its cues from the secular uplift of Arcade Fire while flipping the carnal chorus of "Atomic Dog" into something simultaneously metaphysical and cynical-- "Some people say you're the golden light/ And if I chase after you, doesn't mean it's true." It's all to easy to hear a lyric like "I don't give a damn about your dreams/ A whole world that is falling at the seams" from "You Call Me On" as pitiless. But there's an equanimity to Lewis' viewpoint as he offers "that's what it's supposed to do" as a stark epigram of cold comfort.
And he gets as good as he gives, rarely painting himself as a savior or even someone worthy of envy. "Patient" describes a no-strings fling that you'd think would be the optimum scenario in a Twin Shadow song, but the refusal to define it as such is torture for Lewis and you can hear it in Confess' most over the top arrangement, a bridge cobbling together drumline snares, a shredding guitar, and a push of his 80s influences somewhere towards New Jack Swing. Twin Shadow gets into darker metal-R&B territory on "I Don't Care" whose superficially shocking admonishments to a morally suspect woman brings it awfully close to "Dirty Diana" territory. But "I Don't Care", like most of Confess, doesn't sound ego-fueled or even hateful. Lovers on Confess are equal co-conspirators, liars, fully complicit and bent on mutually assured destruction. Records from the likes of Drake and the Weeknd have been instructive on how to toast to groin-led douchebags. But there's little hedonism or depravity here. On Confess, sex is dispassionately viewed like any addictive substance, one that basically destroys people who use it to fill a spiritual void.
This corrosive thread running throughout Confess helps illustrate the difference in intent between Twin Shadow's two simply titled albums. Forget hinted at traumatic experiences that Lewis was trying to process years after the fact and figured he'd be better off ignoring, whereas Confess doesn't actually cop to much-- just the challenge to "say just what you mean and give up everything." So then it's curious that during one of the softer moments of Confess, Lewis admits, "I'll cry when the movie's over." He's the cocky, successful, brutally honest lothario who almost always gets his comeuppance in cinema and is verboten in indie rock. But this is pop music where the bad guy wins.
