Isolation bred disinterest, and ultimately contempt, as I discovered that my enjoyment of pornography didn't survive the move from my parent's house to the new apartment. Even the understated kitsch value of a dwarf-- costumed as the sorcerer's apprentice-- "giving it" to a fully developed magic broom was lost without the possibility of grandma, shawl-covered and napping in the basement, haphazardly overhearing lines like "FUCK ME HARDER, MERLIN!" With an entire two-bedroom, two-bath at my disposal, the guilt of owning such a collection of magazines and videotapes was gone, unfortunately taking with it the excitement of viewing those naughty images of girl-on-girl, hardcore, and the dubious "miscellaneous."
Trevor Montgomery-- formerly of Tarentel and The Drift-- is familiar with a similar thrill of fermented voyeurism, as his intimate tales of love and death are likewise garnished by a compelling sense of discomfort and guilt. Appropriately made within the confines of his bedroom, Songs for an Unborn Sun-- created under the pseudonym Lazarus-- is a revealing look into the inner-thoughts and fears of this songwriter. Augmented by the poetically macabre sensation that you're participating in an ill-advised act of personal and public shame, Songs... thrives insofar as it doesn't simply function as a detached "tear-in-my-beer" tale of woe, but actively engages the listener in his throes of melancholy torment, regardless of their consent.
Crucial to the album's unsettling success is the production of Marty Anderson (Howard Hello, Dilute); he supplies the sparse accompaniment that shades the sincerity in Montgomery's doleful voice. On "Wind", Anderson layers his own crone-like, tar-filled growl in harmony with Montgomery's soft yet weighty instrument, as they bludgeon your ears with their lamenting call of "I am my mother, I am the wind/ We are lost without each other" before fading gently into the track's namesake. In the same way, "The Song Becomes Blood" and "Born a Friendship" share Anderson's accent: he weaves himself in and out of tune, arising mainly to highlight lyrical buzzwords like "suicide" and "choking."
The root strength of "Poets the Liars" is found within the bleak contrast between strumming acoustic guitar and distant swells of ambient noise, and proves exemplar of the homely yet enjoyable nature of the entire album. As chimes flutter and ornament the bare backbone of what constitutes a melody, you're driven to bear witness to the track as it unfurls, the same way you can't turn your head from the sight of a bloodied animal on the roadside. "Tears", "Obviust", and "Time" develop this musical conceit further, complicating the instrumentation with cello, organ, and piano, which nicely augment these otherwise nude compositions.
Ironically, the relatively upbeat moments of the album detract most from the overall work. "Ocean (Burn the Highways)" feels sentimentally and musically flat trailing behind the rich "Poets", not aided in the least by the addition of sappy, surging strings and an invitation to "drift to sleep." Sounding like the forced caterwaul of a dying relationship that neither party is willing to acknowledge, "Boredom Revolt" further adds to the chagrin as Montgomery ceases to flex his elegiac power, choosing the path most-taken with his floundering plea to go "Back to sleep, to work, and to dreaming."
The vaguely lewd liner notes-- sporting unpleasant line drawings of couples in various stages of arousal-- give the final clue to unlocking the charm and buried beauty of this album. Designed for headphone-enveloped solitude, Songs for an Unborn Sun invokes the dirty-yet-satisfying feelings associated with improper actions, wanton consequences, and various other culpable pleasures. It's telling that Montgomery's only true failure in the project comes in the few moments where he shrouds his work with elements of guiltless indulgence, robbing the listener of artistic intimacy and reducing Songs... from a powerful statement on morose coition to a less enticing, brief flirtation with the obscene.
