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March 7, 2010
BEST ALBUMS OF THE DECADE #3: CLAP YOUR HANDS SAY YEAH - SOME LOUD THUNDER
In his novel HOCUS POCUS, Kurt Vonnegut relays the story about a guy who, as a kid, got stuck in an elevator. He was stuck for about twenty minutes; he thinks that this is a major point in American history; he thinks there is going to a banquet and a celebration afterward; finally the elevator starts and goes to the floor it's supposed to go to: the customers are simply waiting for the elevator, and the kid is surprised to find out that he was not a part of something important. This is Vonnegut's analogy for soldiers coming home from the Vietnam War - for me it is the experience of Clap Your Hands Say Yeah's SOME LOUD THUNDER.
After all the rave reviews for first self-titled album from the band with the imperative for a name, I found it a bit underwhelming. They were not as interesting as the bands they were clearly trying to emulate, and their novelty wore off pretty quick. Alec Ounsworth, that energetic, raspy fellow who yells now matter soft or loud the music behind him, didn't seem to have a lot to sing about. Needless to say, I wasn't expecting much from their follow-up.
My friend, frequent blog-reader Bethan, gave me an advanced copy that I otherwise wouldn't have listen to. When I heard the first song, I imagined that something had gone wrong in the burning process: it seemed to start mid-lick. After one second, the lyrics came crashing in and neither the song, nor the album, never relented from the energy of that first moment. It was a brash, bold feat, and I've never heard anything like it before or since. Their first album was all catch and quirk and pop-tastic lyrics hidden by a grungy aesthetic, but this one immediately told you it would be nothing like that. The lo-fi style is never betrayed by any grander ambitions, and what remains is something at once stunningly personal and not quite attainable.
And that's where the Vonnegut comparison came up. I assumed I had heard the advanced copy of the album everyone would be talking about. I was flummoxed when I found, after its release, that the advanced reviews were so lukewarm, occasionally dismissive. But each I listen to it, I reassure myself that I'm right - I have no secret motive or ambition for selling this album; I'm merely surprised that it hasn't even developed a cult following.
The title track is a knock-out, a post-modern anthem never acknowledged. It's about being unable to communicate, a descriptive cacophony of noises that mirrors the frenetic sound. As Ounsworth keeps shrieking, "That's the state of my story / and it could be maybe something complete someday," we're reminded that much of the best music wasn't supposed to mean anything, and this album - with its artless cover and chaotic exuberance becomes a blank slate on which we can all project our meanings. Yet I find that its poetic even its discord.
And it's followed by the most gentle song CYHSH has ever sung, a mix of their familiar nonsense and a fascinatingly earnest love song:
"You're not like me
It seems that people stick like flies to you
And my mystery
Is just that I've no one to cling to"
"Emily Jean Stock," who is in reality Ounsworth's wife, highlights our insecurities in relationships while reminding us why they're so wonderful when they work. The song contrasts the beautiful, charismatic title character with the singer's realization that he doesn't belong with her. Knowing that this is about his wife makes its combination of saccharine intensity and vulnerable confession welcome.
The next show stopper is "Satan Said Dance," a perverse, ambitious dance number which mixes electronic music with actual electronic dissonance. Its absurd balance sounds like an explosion at the studio and speaks to and exemplifies the liberation of hedonism while parodying the earliest critics of the genre: if dancing is really Satan's lurid vehicle for God's creatures, it might end up looking and sounding something like this electro-nightmare.
The one-two-three punch that leads to the end of the album - "Arm and Hammer," "Yankee Go Home," and "Underwater (You and Me)" keeps this from being as uneven as their debut. Because SOME LOUD THUNDER is ultimately about the failure to communicate with anyone, even though we need that communication to survive, and its oscillation between those two extremes is what makes it moving even its dissonance, coming together in "Underwater." If the album opens with "All this talking / You'd think I'd have something to say" and closes with:
"We'll design a clever disguise
Or retreat to the bottom of the sea
We were destined to live out our lives
Underwater you and me"
Ounsworth ultimately gives us a love letter in spite of itself.
The last song - the shouting and sounds of "Five Easy Pieces" is kind of a letdown; I wish it closed with the aforementioned "Underwater;" it's this that keeps it from being number 2 (but not number 1). But I will continue to sing the praises for the best album you haven't heard, listened to once, or didn't listen to carefully enough.
| By Andytown | 8:53 PM