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The Angels of Light, "We Are Him"
The sound of a western town at dawn gone mad with isolation, We Are Him is a document of Gira's manic undulations through blues, country, blackened rock 'n' roll, and primal exorcism. It is a sullen, fallen, redemptive, contradictory plea to touch the light and joy of God or to know that suffering is our final and only fate.
The Angels of Light come to this record with all guns blazing: a brief and dramatic piano run introduces a pulsing, violent, aquatic rhythm scored by an erupting organ and a near prophetic vocal delivery. It's a stream of sound that comes complete with undertow, its unrelenting stomp dragging the music out towards the endless sway of the sea. "Black Water Song" begins the album in medias res, the tumult of what is to come foreshadowed by the thick-veined madness in Gira's voice and the boiling hysteria in the band's crashing skulls. The world has either come to an end or it is already falling apart at the seams with paranoia, sickness, and red, red rivers. When "Promise of Water" begins all the craze of We Are Him's opening song is tempered; the gnashing of teeth is here a slow march through the desert with the light of hope still lifting the world's feet forward. As the music progresses, Gira and his entire cast of characters slowly transform day into night and chart a slow decline into bitterness, resentment, and perpetual doubt. Bit by bit the curtain begins to fall on the stage and then, in a sudden and unexpected twist, the sun rises, the rain falls, and The Angels of Light transform perverse chaos into celebration.
"Joseph's Song" turns the band on its head. A Beatle-esque brass section opens the song up with a kind of brightness I wouldn't expect from anything Gira touches. The lyrics betray the cheerful arrangement of the song, but all in all it casts a new light upon the rest of the album, marking the end of its descent and the beginning of its ascent towards something like reconciliation. "We Are Him" begins with the celebratory chant, "Let him in / Let him in / Let him in" and is propelled by the country twang of a silver-tongued guitar and a choir's bristling response to Gira's throaty dirge. It's as though all the darkness of the first five tunes has been temporarily alleviated, all inward movement directed outwards and upwards towards the heavens. Even the languishing "Sometimes I Dream I'm Hurting You" is colored by mention of prayer and love. As it pirouette's into an organ sparked rock tune, Gira calls out for a flaming sword: if there must be end, let us all hope we can accept it and slip into the fold of life without hesitation.
There's little I can say about We Are Him that is negative. Akron/Family's influence on Gira's music is more evident than ever, but his song-writing ability is far beyond the band's own and the two talents exist in near total harmony. Hearing Gira more fully embrace the country and blues roots of his recent output is welcome and the songs are stronger for it. "The Man We Left Behind" and "Star Chaser" are in competition with each other for song of the year and both open their arms to the buzzing tilt of American music. If there is anything to complain about, it's that some of the aggression on the record sounds forced, especially in the case of "My Brother's Man." Gira's lyricism has progressed since his sadistic chants to love and violence with Swans, but now and again he deems it necessary to fall back on self-destructing metaphors and unnecessarily crude deliveries. The performances of many of these songs demonstrate profound intimacy and delicacy, the nimble cadence of their procession is capable of reaching into madness and joy more completely than any forced profanity could. Hearing him deliver "Mary Lou / F-f-f-fuck you" with such a flat tone is disappointing (almost embarrassing) when positioned next to the more effective subtlety of "The Visitor."
The Angels of Light have, however, crafted their most perfect and fully-realized album. Fans of New Mother and other purists might have my head for such a comment, but after 25 years of near continuous output Gira sounds most sure of himself on this record. The confidence in the music is naked, its multi-faceted elements each shining through without hindrance.
