Untitled Document
Maybe you’re thinking that the world
doesn’t need another Daniel Johnston tribute album, and maybe
you’re right. Regardless of where you stand on the highly vexed
outsider-art question (are we laughing with ’em or at ’em?),
it’s hard to argue that Johnston, who’s been the quintessential
cult hero’s cult hero for more than 20 years, is underexposed. How
many slobbery encomia can one middle-aged schizophrenic Texan reasonably
expect? How many people have to sing before he stops being an unsung
genius? If a crazy guy makes up a song in the forest, unremarked by
philanthropic hipsters and underground documentarians, does he still make a
sound?
Given the ascendance of DIY/indie culture, without
which Johnston’s unusual career would be inconceivable, we’ll
probably never know the answer to those questions. One thing’s for
sure, though: No one can accuse Kramer, the mastermind behind I Killed the Monster: 21 Artists Performing the Songs of
Daniel Johnston, of jumping on any bandwagon.
A longtime fan, friend, and producer of Johnston’s, Kramer started
work on this compilation four years ago and even resurrected his celebrated
Shimmy-Disc imprint (renamed Second-Shimmy for the new century) to give it a home. He played
on, mixed, remixed, or produced almost every track for the project, which
is clearly a labor of love.
Good thing, too, because if he had other motives,
such as ensuring Johnston a cushy retirement or even expanding his fanbase
beyond the true believers, Kramer would be the delusional one. Unlike
2004’s excellent The Late Great Daniel
Johnston: Discovered Covered (Gammon), Monster contains no celebrity
ambassadors, no Beck, no Tom Waits, no Death Cab for Cutie to win over new
disciples. With a few exceptions — Sufjan Stevens, Mike Watts, maybe Kimya Dawson and Jad
Fair — the artists on Monster aren’t even as well known as Johnston is
himself. In fact, the CD tells you as much about Kramer (his obsession with
the Mellotron, his immersion in the Brooklyn anti-folk scene, his
Spectorish compulsion to construct spectacular monuments on the flimsiest
of foundations) than it does about Johnston, whose heartbreakingly simple
songs are sometimes overshadowed by Kramer’s mighty walls of sound.
Johnston’s gifts are largely extramusical; when you can’t make
out the lyrics, there’s really not much point.
Monster is a mixed bag,
as inconsistent and imperfect as Johnston’s own spotty catalog.
Missteps include the Dick Panthers’ scuzzy psychobilly take on
“Go Fast and Go Some More,” which wrings all the sweetness and
hope from the original and particularly suffers in comparison with the
miraculous Sparklehorse/Flaming Lips version on Late Great. Rope, Inc. contributes a
chilly, goth-inflected reading of “Tears Stupid Tears,” which,
with its melodramatic sobbing, Ian Curtis-style vocals, and looped Oh my God!s, is so
ridiculously over the top that it borders on camp.
Luckily, though, the highlights outnumber the
blunders. Scottish dream-popper Dot Allison brings out the tender optimism
of “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Your Grievances,” and
Daniel Smith and Sufjan Stevens supply a ravishing chamber-pop
interpretation of “Worried Shoes.” “It’s
Over,” sung by Kramer’s daughter Tess against a glittering
backdrop of fake harpsichords, perfectly captures Johnston’s
childlike vulnerability. Best of all, the great Mike Watts marshals
skipping beats and snaking bass lines to funk up “Walking the
Cow,” one of Johnston’s sweetest songs, without destroying the
original’s fragile beauty; it also boasts an exquisitely deranged
solo from guitar god Nels Cline. Maybe another Johnston tribute isn’t
necessary, strictly speaking, but Monster proves that the right tribute payers can make all the
difference.
Contact René Spencer Saller at rssaller@core.com.
Contact René Spencer Saller at rssaller@core.com.
