Mark Sultan doesn't simply revive old sounds and old excitements; he ingests them, digests them, and regurgitates them as something new and personal. Ever since he served as drummer and singer in the notorious Canadian punk act the Spaceshits in the 1990s, he's been fashioning harsh psych, rangey country, dreamy doo-wop, 50s juvie punk, and anarchic noise into strange, catchy, jubilant, occasionally jokey pop songs. He's also made a virtue out of his one-man-band set-up and his irreverent affection for the darker corners of rock history. In the last year, he has branched out into more collaborative projects, however-- donning a choir robe for the garage-gospel group the Almighty Defenders, a (hopefully) one-off collaboration with Black Lips, and playing Ding to Bloodshot Bill's Dong in the Ding-Dongs. Sultan also resumed his role in BBQ Show for another album (and a coloring book!) with friend and longtime cohort King Khan.
As plain-old Mark Sultan, however, Mark Sultan is less prolific, with only one solo album and a string of one-man-band shows under a variety of increasingly bizarre pseudonyms like Celeb Prenup and Blortz. Whatever banner he's flying, however, the sound remains the same, and his latest effort-- which isn't titled so much as branded with a dollar sign-- snaps and crackles with a familiar, flailing energy, as if any of these songs might fall apart at any moment. With a voice that recalls Afghan Whigs' Greg Dulli and Journey's Steve Perry in equal measure, Sultan reigns over the album, whether singing against a broken music box and shredding guitar or crooning on R&B-rattled tracks.
Especially compared to King Khan's thousand-limbed Shrines, Sultan emphasizes austerity and economy, and his one-man band sounds most invigorated when he's immediate and concise, entertaining a melody and an idea for no more than a few minutes before fixing his gaze on the next. Too often on $ he makes too much of a glorious mess. Songs meander, repeat sections to diminishing returns, and often just hang around too long. Opener "Icicles" begins with an aimless guitar jam that staggers around [#script:http://pitchfork.com/media/backend/js/tiny_mce/themes/advanced/langs/en.js]|||||| for four tiresome minutes before finally getting to the end of the song; it's like listening to ice melt. "Ten of Hearts" may be one of his best doo-wop retreads, cutting through a lot of the revivalism to express something sincere and bittersweet, but there's no reason for it to be five minutes long. It'd be a tragedy if Sultan ever curtailed his wilder impulses or slowed his pace, but reining in his indulgences might have turned $ into $$.
