Usually, my first thought upon hearing the phrase, "When it rains, it pours," is of Morton Salt and its iconic logo: a strolling girl in a yellow raincoat hoisting a purple umbrella to deflect airborne particles of sodium chloride. And yet, though this girl seems not to have a care in the world, the phrase is usually associated with a quick succession of unfortunate events (after all, no "Today Show"-watching human being likes a downpour).
But when I used this phrase the other day, I had a different vision altogether. I must first explain why. First, it took almost three hours to complete a 40-minute flight from Boston to New York. Second, I've been looking, or rather finding, love in the all the wrong places. And third, I got fired. When it rains, it pours, indeed. So then, the image: an open, festering wound a la Requiem for a Dream, into which salt slowly trickled, fizzled, and dissolved in a bubbly, bloody mess.
A bit dramatic? You bet, with some hyperbole added-- like salt-- for good measure. But what better mindset could there be for facing Nine Inch Nails' latest remix album? Trent Reznor, after all, has a distinct place in my history: I was prevented from attending my junior high graduation because, during the year-end dance, I "slamdanced" to "Head Like a Hole," kicking a chair over in the process. I didn't deserve that then, and I don't deserve this now. But that's what NIN is all about: the weight of minor injustices on human emotions.
The title was promising, if only because it mirrored my sentiments (so long as it's not a tactless reference to Chinua Achebe's classic novel; plus, The Roots got first dibs). Likewise for some of the song titles: "Slipping Away," "The Great Collapse," "The Wretched," "The Frail." Overdone yes, but sometimes one wants unfiltered emotion, as much as it resembles adolescent angst. Little did I know that the album and aforementioned song titles actually refer to Reznor's talent.
Despite its inherent relation to The Fragile, Things Falling Apart should, like any other album, stand on its own. But this album doesn't stand; it never gets up. It's a toddler with two knobs for legs and arms like a Mr. Potatohead. The 53 minute-long album kicks (read: dozes) off with "Slipping Away (Into the Void Manipulation)" by Reznor and Brit mixer/engineer Alan Moulder. Does this sound familiar?: a plodding, Neanderthal beat; a dated guitar; a violin; searing but sanitized fuzz. Then, everything stops so Trent can scream his first line: "I keep slipping away." After throwing in those same blips he's employed since the beginning of time, the song becomes predictably muddled and furious.
"The Great Collapse"-- the only new track here-- seems out of time, in a bad way. It combines the simplistic beat of the Pretty Hate Machine era with the tasteless piano atmospherics of his later work. "The Wretched," reinterpreted here by Keith Hillebrandt of the Nothing "collective," is another "Hurt"-style subdued song that slowly builds and then crumbles. And Benelli's take on "The Frail" is still a cheap, pseudo-stringed-quartet piece, but with a few clanks here and there. Brilliant!
But here's the best part: three, count 'em, three remixes of the truly unforgivable "Starfuckers, Inc." Dub producer Adrian Sherwood gives the song a, well, dubby makeover. Skinny Puppy's Dave Ogilvie, hot off his work remixing Mötley Crüe, goes the house route. And Charlie Clouser's version is a drum-n-bass-via-trance journey that doesn't even remotely resemble the original. All three remixes are slight improvements over the original, but isn't that automatically the case?
The only bright spot here wasn't even originally composed by NIN: a cover of Gary Numan's "Metal." Reznor drenches the first five minutes in fuzz, but during the last two minutes, pleasant, unforced acoustic strumming and quavering keyboards subtly rise above the fuzz. It's these two minutes that saved the album rating from goose eggs.
I desperately wanted this album to speak to me. To join me in this rut. To agree that yes, when it rains, it pours. But as suspected, it didn't. Instead, it sunk lower-- way down below me. Listening to this album was so painful that the festering wound no longer seemed so serious: a cut mends itself, but Things Falling Apart is around for the long haul.
