What if the Manson Family had been less of a
patriarchal death cult and more of a freeform collective? What if
they’d shacked up in cool, reasonable Vermont instead of hotheaded
California and collaborated on their own songs instead of parroting those
of their rock-star-manqué leader? What if they’d spent more
time ministering to their individual muses and less time embroidering their
hair into an ornate allegorical vest for Charlie? What if they’d just
listened to the Beatles and stopped short of transcribing Lennon/McCartney
lyrics in the blood of a pregnant starlet and her entourage? Replace the
Manson Family’s deranged zealotry with musical talent, and, my guess
is, they’d sound a lot like Feathers, a coed psych-folk octet whose
members proudly call themselves a family while letting their freak flags
fly as high as Susan “Sadie” Atkins was when she named her kid
Ze Zo Ze Cee Zadfrack. Feathers’ self-titled debut on Gnomonsong, the
fledgling label founded by Andy “Vetiver” Cabic and
Devendra Banhart, is a study in communal music-making. In true hippie
fashion, the members of Feathers prefer to go by first names only,
there’s no obvious frontperson, and the liner notes don’t
specify who played or wrote what. Most everyone sings, and the album
(originally self-released on vinyl) was recorded in the blacklit bedroom of
one of the members. And if the dig-our-groovy-threads CD cover isn’t
enough to induce a flashback, check out these song titles: “Old Black
Hat with a Dandelion Flower” and “Silverleaves in the Air of
Starseedlings.” Stippled with sitars, recorders, violins, dulcimers,
mandolins, harps, clarinets, and bongos, the CD sets up camp on the
Arcadian terrain of such Brit-folk legends as Vashti Bunyan, the Incredible
String Band, Steeleye Span, and early Marc Bolan (think Tyrannosaurus Rex,
not T. Rex). If you listen closely, though, it’s not a total
throwback: Behind the acoustic strum and patchouli-scented drone,
you’ll find the glint of synthesizer, the flickering of electronic
static. Although the impossibly fey “Past the Moon” and the
overly long “Ibex Horn” bring out my inner Eric Cartman, most
of the album’s eight tracks are so lovely and so lovingly arranged
that to mock them just seems ignorant, like putting Drano in your doper
roommate’s bong. Although such democratic ventures usually devolve
into spotlight-jockeying chaos, Feathers’ songs are remarkably
restrained. The members wisely await their turns, opting for subtlety and
balance over anarchic cacophony. “Ulna,” a delicate waltz
composed of drowsy acoustic guitar, crystalline vocalizing, and the barest
hint of woodwind counterpoint, is the sonic counterpart to a Pre-Raphaelite
painting; another waltz, “Come Around,” conflates its
ivy-bedecked heroine with roses, mountains, and bracing breezes, creating a
luscious verdancy that recalls the poetry of Christina Rossetti. Other
songs are decidedly less wispy but no less well-crafted. The minor-key
fantasy “Van Rat” opens with the chirring of crickets and then
weaves toy pianos and acoustic guitars into a proggish tapestry of
senseless stonerisms (something about monkeys and robot arms), random radio
noise, and offkey whistling before unraveling in a twin-guitar freakout. Throughout the album, the vocal harmonies have a
flower-child-like purity, and the lyrics, when they’re decipherable,
seem as earnest as a pair of hemp sandals. As unbelievable as it might
sound in these cynical, irony-addicted times, the overall tone is
reverential, not parodic. To say that Feathers seems like a bunch of hippie
longhairs is like saying Squeaky Fromme was an excellent embroiderer
— indisputable and irrelevant. Yeah, the we’re-a-happy-family
shtick will probably always come off as a tad creepy in these post-Manson
times, but as long as they keep making pretty music (and until they start
stabbing people), Feathers can crash at my pad whenever they like.
This article appears in Jun 1-7, 2006.
