In “Exodus Damage,” one of 14 quietly harrowing tracks on his
fifth and finest CD, John Vanderslice sings, “No one ever says a word about/So
much that happens in the world.” If this is true, it’s not his fault:
Among other subjects, Pixel Revolt addresses the youth of Joan Crawford,
the escape of a pet rabbit, the loneliness of the celebrity-stalker, and the
allure of psychopharmaceuticals. And although 9/11 songs aren’t exactly
the cutting edge anymore, “Exodus Damage” is probably the first one written
from the perspective of a conflicted former terrorist. Driven by stinging ’80s-era
synths, jangly acoustic guitar, and rumbling, almost subliminal bass, this anti-anthem
boasts a singularly ambivalent refrain: “Dance dance revolution/All we’re
gonna get/Unless it falls apart/So I say: Go go go/Let it fall down/I’m
ready for the end.” For the narrator, who talks to his beloved by cell
phone as the second plane hits the World Trade Center, love is “a sad delusion,
but sometimes it’s true.” Love, in all of its indispensable inadequacy,
is Pixel Revolt’s great theme. It might not be enough to save us,
but it’s all there is.
The intersection of the personal and the
political isn’t a particularly original topic, but
Vanderslice steers clear of dissertation-ready thesis statements.
His lyrics, edited and augmented by frequent collaborator John
Darnielle of the Mountain Goats, cram a novel’s worth of
detail and ambiguity into a handful of lines. Take “Trance
Manual,” which describes a Western journalist’s tryst
with an Iraqi prostitute. Over shivery church bells and synthesized
flute, Vanderslice croons, “Oh, dressed like that/You are a
flag of a dangerous nation/Oh dressed like that/You are some kind
of declaration.” It’s at once tender and creepy,
poignant and repellent, and so improbably beautiful that it stops
your breath for a second.
Meticulously recorded at Vanderslice’s
own Tiny Telephone studio with mostly analog gear, Pixel Revolt sounds
so fantastic that a listener could be forgiven for not noticing the lyrics
immediately. Richly layered with looped percussion, plangent cello, and
vintage keyboards, the arrangements are pristine but warm, thrumming
with organic touches. Unlike so many mad-scientist self-producers,
Vanderslice resists the temptation to clutter up his songs with too
many found sounds and freaky flourishes; his lucid, emotive, and
unfashionably earnest tenor is always at the front of the mix,
perfectly decipherable and unassailably human. It’s a brave and
hopeful voice, the surest antidote to the silence of an indifferent
world.
Although Leslie Feist used to go by the
name Bitch Laplap and hang with the dildo-wielding electrofloozy
Peaches, her U.S. debut carries no trace of her NC-17-rated
backstory. Let It Die, the Canadian singer/songwriter’s second solo
release, wouldn’t sound at all amiss in an elevator or an
upscale grocery store. Forged from an unlikely coalition of styles
— jazz, folk, pop, Latin, disco, hip-hop, and God knows what
else — Feist’s music is soothing and sophisticated,
grown-up but not played out. Most self-respecting music fans are
understandably suspicious of the “adult contemporary”
label, but if anyone can redeem the genre, it’s Feist, who
sounds both “adult” and “contemporary” but
way too cool for the likes of Michael Bolton and Air Supply.
Whether she’s performing one of her six stellar originals or
covering the Bee Gees, Blossom Dearie, or Ron Sexsmith, Feist finds
the common thread linking her disparate influences, the essential
kernel that makes them all cohere. The music purrs and pulses, all
muted brass and gentle strum, but the real star is her voice, a
cracked warble that’s one part Billie Holiday, one part Dusty
Springfield, and sexy as all get-out.
This article appears in Sep 8-14, 2005.
