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ON THE COVER | NEWS & VIEWS | THE TOWN DANDY February 28, 2008
CD: Corky's Debt to his Father Corky's Debt to his Father Mayo Thompson's Corky's Debt to his Father was first released in 1970, though it was so out of step with other albums of its time its age hardly shows today. The folks at Drag City (who are hell bent on chronicling the seemingly endless navigations of Thompson's four-decade musical career) have finally brought one of the great head-scratching avant-pop albums of the '70s back into print (again). This new vinyl edition marks the fourth issue of the album, which has drifted in and out of print for the past 37 years, this time with a heavy old-school cardboard sleeve and a bonus 7-inch. Corky's Debt is a particularly difficult record to write about as its brilliance is not the kind of thing that's glaringly obvious or even striking on initial contact, glowing with the same off-kilter pop essence as the treacherous seas navigated by other '60s crackpot pop-luminaries like Syd Barrett. The difference here is that Thompson approaches things as an artist (of the highest brow) and not a tormented acid casualty, although by no means do his pretensions outweigh his intentions. Thompson is perhaps best known as the leader and continuous frontman for the ever-shifting musical collective known as The Red Krayola, which began at the dawn of the psychedelic era as part of the same Texas scene that birthed The 13th Floor Elevators. Corky's Debt marks Thompson's first solo effort after The Red Krayola's two records for International Artists turned what was then known as rock 'n' roll completely inside-out. Aeons ahead of their time, the Krayola approach was conceptual, abstract and even Cagian. Other rock bands in the '60s merely dabbled in the avant garde — The Beatles, The Velvets, The Mothers, etc. — they put it at the forefront, with concepts often taking precedence over songs, resulting in a particular kind of rock deconstruction that would not be fully realized until the post-punk era. Part of the brilliance of Corky's Debt is that it takes this deconstruction, shoots it through with mature early '70s singer-songwriterisms (perhaps Thompson finally heard Dylan?) and uses it to build rather than destroy. After all, this is an album of proper, well-produced songs, and though it doesn't brim over with wide-eyed pre-punk energy like the early Krayola albums, it instead settles into kind of damaged beauty that is far more personal and revealing. Thompson's approach on Corky's Debt comes off something like the musical equivalent of Marcel Duchamp attempting to paint like Norman Rockwell, as if an otherwise oblivious Dada wordsmith walked into the wrong recording studio, guitar in hand, and accidentally cut a record with Jerry Jeff Walker's backup band, minds blowing left and right as the tape rolled. That's not to say that the contrast between Thompson and his surroundings is stark — it's almost as if he's able to blend in and stand out at the same time, exhibiting a form of uneasiness that is strangely comfortable. Thompson's earnestness is far beyond his actual ability to sing: In this sound world, a missed note merely reminds us of a real world that is imperfect, and Thompson misses them in every song. If anything, the record stands as proof that even the most self-indulgent brand of whimsical nonsense lyricism can be shaped into genuine introspection, beautifully thrashing about in the often all-too-empty space where content is eclipsed by context. To this day, the album still stands not only as a well-aged folk-pop album, but also as an immovable piece of conceptual art. — Spencer Doran
Amazing Grace Perhaps the most pernicious doctrine of colonialism is the idea that enslavement is in the desire of the oppressed, and that the overthrow of slavery came from the gracious realizations of those in power. Articulated in the toxic notion of the "white man's burden," as phrased by Rudyard Kipling, the explanation that placed more than 80 percent of the globe's population under the boot of the privileged minority, is alive and well in the film Amazing Grace. Amazing Grace is a movie that chronicles the commitment of Member of Parliament William Wilberforce to persuade the British government that it should make the slave trade illegal. While it certainly portrays an important time in history, there's a problem: The movie's subtle and effective retelling of the story of slavery virtually leaves out Africans. The film spends a lot of time describing the documentation of the terrors of slavery, putting forward the idea that the struggle against slavery was a battle of public opinion, that testimony from slaves was necessary to convince people that the slave trade was evil. But in the film, almost every articulation of the horrific slave trade is retold by a wealthy British citizen intent on persuading an audience of his peers. Like Amistad, Amazing Grace includes images and even representations of Africans, but the arguments to the film audience are mostly made by privileged advocates. Former slave Olaudah Equiano, played by Youssou N'Dour, is the only exception in Amazing Grace; he gets some time on the screen, a chance to show the East India Company brand on his chest and to rattle some chains, but it's all in order to prove to Wilberforce that slaves need an advocate of his caliber. This is the refined version of colonialism: that the former slaves, unable to free themselves, need a white savior for emancipation. The suffering of anonymous Africans is described in heartfelt speeches, but African characters are given no depth and no chance to speak for themselves. The most villainous British characters get screen time to explore their redemption, most notably, the brutal slave ship captain John Newton, who in his own words is guilty: responsible for the slavery and murder of 20,000 Africans. Newton becomes a beaming bystander, crying in the wings, as generous English leaders decide to outlaw the slave trade inspired by his testimony and by his authorship of the redemption song "Amazing Grace." Effective in drawing out emotions in the viewer, Amazing Grace may ultimately do more harm than good. The DVD release comes complete with features aimed at teachers: educational clips and exercises to be used in classrooms, presumably during the month of February, which the establishment has deemed Black History Month. Let us hope that the film is used only as an artifact to talk about how colonial discourse has evolved and maintained a system of white supremacy rather than as a self-congratulatory retelling of history that obliterates the very real struggle against slavery. — Maxwell Schnurer
Falling Off The Lavender Bridge It is a surprise to initially hear Lightspeed Champion's debut, Falling Off The Lavender Bridge, especially for those who may be familiar with the UK singer/songwriter (whose real name is Devonte Hynes) from his former band, The Test Icicles, whose jagged thrash punk was near-chaotic. Then again, this recording is full of surprises. From the delicate pedal steel of the opening song, "Number One," you realize that this is light-years from his original persona. One could give credit to producer/multi-instrumentalist Mike Mogis, one of the three principle members of Bright Eyes, who lends his Saddle Creek label sentiments. The record's alt-country sound is filled with pedal steel, strings, woodwinds, banjo and keyboards that comfortably surround the vocals. Mogis also worked as engineer/producer for Bright Eyes albums Cassadaga, I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning and Digital Ash in a Digital Urn, as well as producing Rabbit Fur Coat, the recent solo effort by Jenny Lewis of Rilo Kiley. What Hynes brings is his classic British pop song sensibility — reminiscent of Prefab Sprout or The Daintees, and songs full of parts — with time changes and chord changes that often arrive in a surprising place. His lyrics are full of ache, insecurity and fatalism. As he noted in a recent Mojo interview, he wrote all of the songs "in one go, on a long play journey, suffering from insomnia and having just broken up with my girlfriend. My stream of consciousness was just flying wild." His sensitive "All to Shit" is a beautiful, melodic song of break-up, with only a string arrangement to accompany his vulnerable vocal. "Midnight Surprise" is a song that seems to have three parts seamlessly strung together slowly building to an Arcade Fire-like crescendo. Songs such as "Dry Lips" or "Let the Bitches Die" have oddly upbeat mandolin-driven, hook-laden melodies juxtaposed with Hynes' fatalistic lyrics as if they were joyous discoveries, enhanced by the lovely backing vocals of little-known British singer/songwriter "Emmy the Great" (Emma-Lee Moss). It's also worth noting that Nate Walcott from Bright Eyes arranged the string parts for Falling Off The Lavender Bridge, which was recorded at the Saddle Creek studios in Omaha. At first thought, this combination seems oddball, but it works. The production and arrangements enhance the songs, rather than smother them. And like the surprise of Bright Eyes' Cassadaga, one of last year's strongest records, it's filled with eccentric changes, textural elements and dark lyricism. Lightspeed Champion's debut release is full of depth, craft and dark beauty that allows you to notice numerous different layers upon repeated listening. While Lightspeed Champion has already turned in one of the strongest debuts of 2008, it is reported that he has already written songs for two more albums. One is curious what that material will sound like. Expect a bounty of surprises — good ones — if they're anything like this debut. — Mark Shikuma
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