Assigning ratings is risky business, especially in a ten-point tier system. After I gave Cerberus Shoal's 1999 album Homb a 7.5, I worried whether it should have been scored lower. I liked their solemn approach to left-field post-rock, but would others find it too serious and self-important? Their follow-up, Crash My Moon Yacht, took a dip down in quality, from the over-exuberant Lion King Africana of "Yes Sir, No Sir" to the hippie-dance vibe of "Asphodel." The band seemed to grow in expressive talent but the choral theatrics just didn't fly, which retroactively cast further doubt on the rating I'd given Homb.
Mr. Boy Dog has been tagged as a major comeback, and as their "hardest" album yet. Maybe those descriptions came from critics hard-of-hearing; as with most double-disc albums, it's more of a spotty affair. The key songs continue in the modus operandi of the six-member group, combining ethnic instrumentation with oddly tuned guitars and brass to create tumultuous works chock-full of bizarre surprises. But the tracks between these epics indulge an ass-annoying experimental trend. Mr. Boy Dog's twelve tracks total about seventy minutes, and though each set of six songs flows together in a loosely structured narrative, I can't help but think they would have fit better on one disc.
The first record begins with fierce start/stop squalls that share some real estate with Zorn's Naked City. But the blurts quickly settle into "Nataraja," a typical Cerberus piece featuring hand-drumming and slowly swooning horn lines that eventually lock into the kind of fluctuating arpeggios that (for better or worse) Philip Glass had already trademarked. It's far too single-minded and compromised to realize its full potential. Worse, "Camel Bell" follows, which begins promisingly with chiming glissandi but then busts into this absurd carnival arabesque, flinging itself headfirst into parody. The horns on this band's early albums added a nice depth to the bass/guitar/drums setup, but here there's a lot of pomp and too little circumstance.
In case you had any doubts that there's a joke being played, "Tongue Drongue" begins with six minutes of belch-like vocals. It's not challenging, it's not the Shoal channeling the ghost of Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, and hopefully, it's nothing more than a field recording of someone croaking drunkenly. Maybe now I know what it's like to be on the business end of an April Fool's joke, but all the thumb pianos and funky drumming that follow in the next six minutes don't make up for the cringe-worthiness that precedes.
Take heart, o reader, for the second record cures some of the injustices of the first. "Unmarked Boxes" contains many of the same instruments mentioned above, but weaves the guitar strands together in a carefully echoing chorus. This time the vocals comprise actual lyrics, which crest powerfully before fading into "Telikos II," an instrumental elaboration. The two brief pieces that follow, each titled with a symbol unrepresentable here, are some of the most fascinating on the album, juxtaposing an organ and building-block jam with television samples and the sound of a running faucet. And the album ends with its one essential composition, "An Egypt That Does Not Exist." The group blends their voices, singing, "I die daily/ I lay down," a mantra that repeats over and over as the flute mourns concordantly.
Is there a contradiction? One minute, I'm accusing Cerberus Shoal of taking themselves too seriously, the next they're just screwing around. There are a few genuinely playful moments, as with the funky 70s bassline squonk on "Stumblin' Block," but more often, the grooves on Mr. Boy Dog are a Barnum & Bailey procession gone bad. Improvisation taken to the most zany extremes of logic can so easily result in music that's focused on process and technique at the expense of being stimulating. It's the Cerberus Shoal collective as cult, obsessed with ritual without the sacrament to make it meaningful. Groups like the No-Neck Blues Band are doing similar, more intriguing things. What's mystifying is that Cerberus Shoal seem incredibly satisfied with their current position, as if this is the peak they've always wanted to reach. If so, then march on! Their music will always be unique, but I can only imagine those dedicated to the weirdest tangents of rock to follow. The average listener's question will be: "What the hell are these guys on?!"
