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Eitzel and his hosts refurbished eight of his American Music Club and solo songs spanning from 1987 to today, plus a new one and one written by producer Manolis Famellos. Fortunately it still sounds like it should: the inimitable Mark Eitzel performing his emotionally wrought song craft. Eitzel is in fine voice and the Grecians' flourishes of plucked, strummed and sweeping strings are tastefully reserved, careful to add local flavors but not to overwhelm the songs. Except maybe for "Here They Roll Down" as it's given a slightly bothersome bagpipe-like drone. Classics such as "Western Sky", "Jenny", "Nightwatchman", "Take Courage", "Will You Find Me" and "Last Harbor" are as heartbreakingly beautiful as they've always been. If nothing else, this album serves as a reminder of just how fucking great these songs are and preserves them with modern production. "Anything" from 2001's 'The Invisible Man' may very well be better than the original. The new one "What Good Is Love" and Famellos' "Love's Humming" are far from sore thumbs and delve a bit deeper into Greek drama, musically and lyrically. In the former Eitzel rhetorically asks "and if there's no way to love / the one that I love / then what good is love?" and in the latter cries "but oh the one she could hurt the most / she claimed his joy and ruined mine". Unlike the hit and miss, half-hearted covers of 'Music for Courage and Confidence', Eitzel has put all of his heart into covering himself.
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The ensemble is quiet, and soft-spoken, and forever tinkering with their own sound, like a child who is playing doctor for the first time. "Deja, Comme Des Trous De Vent, Comma Reproduit," the first song is a meandering melody line which repeats over and over with instruments coming in and departing. The line is engaging enough that the repetition is not abrasive. "Holy Throat Hiss Tracts to the Sedative-Hypnotic" features a field recording (not the only one of the album) of a truly mundane story recounted by an older gentlemen; something about a horse and a trampling. Or was it a trampoline? An intense creaking frames the story, sounding either like the creaking of a ocean vessel's guts or some ungodly-built metal structure held together by linchpins of corroded plastic. It's almost as if the old man realizes the banality of his story, for he swings wildly in the other direction and recounts a entirely incredulous tale of fire emanating from some man's eyes. "When Sorrow Shoots Her Darts" is a moody orchestral piece which regains some of the composure from the first songs, but ends too soon. The final song on disc one, "Tehran in Seizure/Telegraphs in Negative," is a marked change in sound, more of an organic noise piece than the others. The other departure in sound is "Buzz of Barn Flies Like Faulty Electronics," which approaches free jazz. The souls of both songs are muted and understated, demonstrating the how you have to listen rather intently to these songs in order to find their elegance, a lesson which instructs the listening for the whole album. In the end, the album does not sound dissimilar from what is actually is: a talented ensemble isolated in the confines of a dark house, making improvisational music while staring at boarded-up windows, blank walls, and a dearth of stimuli straight in the face.
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Trimmed down to founder Bennett and longtime member Philip Best (also known to noise fiends as the brain behind Consumer Electronics), the duo have unleashed a venom-spewing foray into the digital/analog hybrid noise sound initiated on their essential Mummy And Daddy and further explored on the somewhat disappointing Cruise. The album opens with a vengeance on "Why You Never Became A Dancer," a blistering track stuffed with harsh lyrics. Truth be told, the real fun of any Whitehouse album comes from trying to decipher the rage behind their menacing and profane lyrics. As usual, there are some lines that exude their dark humor, as on "Cut Hands Has The Solution," (a song apparently about self-mutilation/cutting) where Best bellows "Are you so much of a slug that you can't live without a fucking sundae?" Here, both Bennett and Best doubleteam the victim, with a barrage of questions and insinuations that almost come across like a perverse Scientology auditing session. Supposedly based on the murder mystery linked to gay British actor Michael Barrymore, "Wriggle Like A Fucking Eel," released months before the album as a 12" single, slings verbal abuse at Stuart Lubbock, a used boytoy who ultimately drowned in the actor's swimming pool—a "chlorine gargoyle." The only contribution from now former member Peter Sotos comes in the form of a tape collage of television news programs on child abduction and prostitution, similar to those on the last two albums. Overall, his exit from the group seems only to have intensified the project's overall mission and sound. Bird Seed is destined for my Top 10 list for 2003.
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None of the multiple sudden changes in musical style help to add to the album's enjoyability, they subtract from it because the changes seem so arbitrary. For instance, the opening song "The Wherewithall" begins with an excellent rhythm section and shimmering guitar melody that faultlessly and easily travels across a broad sonic spectrum. Indeed, it begins colorfully and promisingly enough but then suddenly explodes into a heavy metal brawl of screams and grinding guitars that completely ruins the mood that was only just established. Within the next four minutes the song goes from a quiet, meditative movement to a spoken-word dronescape and then back to still more heavy metal. Normally shifts like these are the sort of things that can make an album exciting, but on Osama this just isn't the case. This game of musical chairs pretty much continues for the rest of the album and it only becomes more annoying. Just when Shalabi seems to finally be settling down, he radically changes styles and ruins everything. Just one more note about this album: the title might suggest that an interesting political statement is being made; one that, given current events, would be worth investigating. This really couldn't be further from the truth. Sadly, I'd even venture to say that Shalabi doesn't have a message at all. A song with the name "Mid-East Tour Diary (2002)" might seem promising, but it starts off with the words "Why don't you just suck my big fat semetic cock?." The song only continued to alienate me as it plodded along with its redundant music and similarly aimless lyrics. The album ends as suddenly as it began and I'm left wondering why this was released; I know Shalabi can do better.
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Surrounding Chernoff is the requisite (and, at this point, almostcliched) Montreal cooperative of musicians whose memberships in otherbands would be too laborious to enumerate (a sampling of theConstellation and Alien8 labels will give you a representativecross-section). Let it just be known that there is a lush assortment ofpiano, guitars, strings, horns, and organs. "Death March (Erskine'stheme)" lets loose at one point with what rightfully could be called anaural assault of horns, percussion, guitars and banjos. For about twominutes, it sounds as if thirteen New Orleans brass bands weresimultaneously competing on separate street corners of Bourbon Street.My biggest disappointment with Molasses is how similar all the songsare. I enjoy the sound of the first few songs, like "Valley Song" and"Insomnia," and the music along with the lyrics along with thepackaging (we will talk about this shortly) create this lovely gothicenvironment (not gothic in the way you are thinking. I am merelytalking about 18th century spooky houses in rural New England, lit bymoonlight and with wind rustling dead leaves on trees). But soon therepetition of chords, tempos, and vocals give the sensation of beingstuck in a time loop. Listen to one of the song samples and you have afairly good idea how the entire album sounds. The instrumental songscome almost as a relief, for they are the most distinct andexperimental pieces in the two disc set and they remind us we stillgoing forward in time rather than repeating it. Despite the homogenoussound, it is not too much of a chore to listen through two discs sinceMolasses executes a pleasant sound. The packaging of 'A Slow Messe' isbeautifully done without being cumbersome and unwieldy. The dualbooklets feature lyrics as well as Chernoff's photographs, distressedto make them look ancient or unearthed. By the end of listening to thealbum and perusing the inserts, I understood how aptly named the bandis. Chernoff's vocals stretch out with the viscosity of drops ofmolasses, keeping level and understated during the formation of thedrop and rising at the point at which the droplet of molasses gets tooheavy for itself and finally falls away into the dark space below.
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