Canon Fodder #8: I Know I Know I Know

BEAK> - >>

Geoff Barrow is understandably sick of people referencing Portishead when discussing his band BEAK>, and the trio certainly has a distinct vibe from the act what wrought him. Beak records live in the studio, songs born from improvisation by three dudes playing guitar, bass, drums and old-school synthesizers. Not exactly trip-hop. Of course, those instruments were the building blocks of the last Portishead album, and Barrow’s vocals are so amateurish and buried you couldn’t blame someone mistaking these songs for P-head demos, awaiting the Beth Gibbons goth “Goldfinger” treatment. But if you accept his vocals as a signifier to distinguish these songs from soundtrack work, rather than the center of attention (or if ‘90s indie desensitized you to anonymous moaning), Beak achieves a ghostly wallop somewhere between Shellac and early Cabaret Voltaire. All three of Beak’s albums to date are a delight, but this second one strikes me as their most consistent and definitive: three pros indulging their interest in Silver Apples soundscaping and Krautrock grooves, avoiding polish without sacrificing effect.

Tegan & Sara - So Jealous

Having filed the duo under DiFranco the first time they graced the promo pile at my college radio station, I was unprepared for how intensely hooky their fourth album felt. Reviewing So Jealous for Stylus in 2004, I compared it to a Duff sisters album of indie dreams. In hindsight, their biggest pop crossover not coming for almost another decade, Jealous feels a closer cousin to what fellow canucks The New Pornographers were up to (fitting, as two NP associates helped produce this). Growing up alongside their audience, the earnest college-age folkies of their first albums (released on Neil Young's label!) were now ready to roll with the hipsters, their unique harmonies and tense hook-sense, present from the beginning, matching remarkably well with the amped-up emotional aesthetic of the times. The first half is such a tightly wound, caffeinated rush of romantic anxiety that I’ve always found the resolutely midtempo later numbers "Walking With A Ghost” and “We Didn’t Do It” annoyingly merely hooky in comparison. But the back half still features the exuberant, Pixies-sticky “Speak Slow” and the heartbreaking back-to-back finale of “Fix You Up” and the aptly titled “I Can’t Take It,” which suggest a Sleater-Kinney that didn’t abandon their early anguish when aiming for rock godhood. The duo’s lockdown-era reinterpretation of these songs, Still Jealous, is remarkable for how they changed the instrumentation but never fucked with the tempo. Maybe they couldn’t imagine these songs at any other pace either.

Mary Margaret O'Hara - Miss America

Long aware of the affection alterna-icons like Michael Stipe and Morrissey had for the reportedly reclusive, vocally reckless O’Hara, I was thrilled to discover a used vinyl copy of this ’88 album at a library booksale in college. It didn’t really stick though, as the classy “progressive radio” instrumentation was already more daunting for a young listener than O’Hara’s willingness to risk accusations of pretension and stridency. I assume that’s even more the case for new listeners now, with Iris DeMent providing HBO theme songs and Alanis Morissette not just a radio staple but a source for jukebox musicals. So while I enjoy Miss America a lot more now, enough to repurchase it on CD, I’d ask the curious if they’d like to hear Patti Smith or Kristin Hersh work with Richard Thompson (O'Hara guitarist Rusty McCarthy is clearly familiar with his work), rather than regale them with tales of a Canadian chanteuse who was too extreme for her label and never made another album until the 21st Century. While tracks like “Year In Song” would certainly be a wild-ass workout for any of the aforementioned artists, the alterna-era created a context where O’Hara’s unapologetic vocal expressionism is still admirable but less audacious. Now kids need to be warned how World Cafe the band’s gonna be.

Spoon - They Want My Soul

I initially wrote this off as one of their more hit-or-miss albums like Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga (imo, fans, imo). “Inside Out” is a proud, pulsing dream of faux-harp. “Do You,” their definitive ode to aging bachelorhood. “New York Kiss,” possibly their most blissful romantic reverie. The rest? Fine, if scattershot, as implied by the inclusion of an Ann-Margret cover. But eventually the grody yet glowing title track got its hooks in, the disco of “Outlier” (aptly titled!) stopped sounding corny, and the album started flowing well enough to merit purchase. Going to revisit Hot Thoughts next.

Fleetwood Mac - Say You Will

A bloated 2004 reunion album that ironically might have been shorter with a third songwriter. If Christine McVie hadn’t balked at the idea of dealing with All Things Buckingham Nicks in the studio, and they’d paired three-to-four of her songs with eight-to-ten of the best here, people would have been blown away by their best  album since Tusk if not Rumours. The music is catchy as ever, the grooves solid, and Buckingham remains the best producer Nicks ever had. But McVie had better things to do, and the competition between the former lovers led to a 2LP/1CD monster that’s more Warehouse: Songs And Stories than Zen Arcade.

No older British woman to raise her eyebrows, Buckingham free to indulge in obnoxiois shredding and political incoherency (it’s tragic the first single was his inscrutable Gulf-minded  "Peacekeeper” and not Nicks’ repair-minded title track), while Nicks gets repetitive trying to match him song-for-song (they literally end with Buckingham’s “Say Goodbye” and Nicks’ “Goodbye, Baby”). Even so, I rate it slightly over the ‘80s albums. There's less druggy filler even if the singles aren’t nearly as stunning. Still, I can’t helping thinking about how close they were to something even more outstanding.

Liz Phair - Exile On Guyville

I’m on team Phair. I swear! I included her self-titled album on that year’s Pazz & Jop Ballot! I checked out Somebody’s Miracle when it came out! Did you? Probably not! Granted, I don’t remember a note from that thing, and eventually decided the s/t was pretty damn front-loaded. In fact, I went a long time thinking all of her albums were thinner and more single-oriented than often acknowledged. While she apparently did get a cheap best-of in 2014, it was a Best Buy exclusive and a little too light on the Matador era. Needing something of hers on the shelf, I finally made my peace with this album, whose 1CD-not-quite-2LP length annoys me (Exile On Mainstreet is also 18 tracks, but 12 minutes longer). Even if I’d prefer a little more or a little less, it maintains a vibe that’s darker and more consistent than I really appreciated as a college student, That's probably because I was more in tune with blue-balled histrionics and/or feedback fury, rather than a young woman smarter, more self-aware and more honest about sex than the hipsters who dismissed and fascinated her. Now to give the next two another try!

Clap Your Hands Say Yeah - Clap Your Hands Say Yeah

I’ll never forget seeing these guys open for the National in the mid-‘00s, the packed room of bouncing heads disappearing completely before the headliner I’d never heard of began (I thought I’d give them a try, but left once the singer stood on a monitor despite the emptiness, reminding me too much of some sub-Bono like Tim Booth). A few years later and the occurrence seemed unthinkable, The National quickly an IKEA Indie Brand and Clap Your Hands Say Yeah dismissed as blog bullshit. Well I still can’t click with the National (it’s the self-serious baritone), and was surprised to put Clap’s 2020 album on my year-end best-of, so I’m sticking to my guns. This album is a little more carnival cutesy-poo than necessary, but they were making some quality nasal, ramshackle rave-ups. It's not unlike the Violent Femmes attempting a Marquee Moon, making up in organs and effect pedals what they lacked in guitar chops. Anybody who's happy to investigate an '80s Hoboken band should have time for these guys. Unfortunately, these stateside self-releasers, like...uhhh...Macklemore, learned that it’s hard to stay in the limelight without an invested record company. Especially if you’re taking three years between albums. But I remember!

(BEAK>'s >> is currently ranked number 220 on my favorite albums on My Favorite Albums Of All Time list, between The Afghan Whigs' Gentlemen and Cat Power's Moon Pix. The latest, only slightly outdated posting of the Top 300, is here. I'm telling you this because I've found people are more inclined to discuss and share reviews if there's a quantitative element at the top or bottom they can easily debate. Prove me right!)