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June 04, 2007
On "Bushels"...
Three months ago, I claimed I'd come back to "Bushels," the epic masterpiece of Frog Eyes' ridiculous new album, Tears of the Valedictorian, in a week. While it may have been obvious within two or three listens that this was one of the songs of the year, it's certainly not an easy track to take in. So, be it sloth or deep thought that caused the delay, I'm at last ready to wrestle the beast...
After ten seconds or so of gentle lullabye effects, the standard full frontal Frog Eyes assault is upon you. Demented lead man Carey Mercer's vocals are, believe it or not newbies, a bit less wild than possible. The lyrical concerns are, as always, miles away from the "so, I met this girl" trifles that litter pop songwriting. Though typically oblique, he seems to focus on an exporter of crops, disconnected from his loved ones and possible drunk. The music in this epic's opening act is dense and restless. Spencer Krug (perhaps the finest keyboard composer in modern rock) provides the melodic entry point into this thorny thicket, with a repetitively regal piano figure ever cresting along with the riotous drums. From the start the sound is so big, so solemn and dramatic, that if not for the small mention of a telephone call I'd be tempted to describe it as Victorian.
Soon the thick music pares down a bit, slowing so that we can clearly make out the song's most repeated lyrical sequence. Carey shows some restraint here, carefully but crazily intoning;
"Oh though, though he had/ la-la-la-lots to do
He pulled the fly off of its wing
to give the birch birch birch back it's spring"
Now, a couple of user generated online lyrics sources are confilcted on whether or not the final word is "spring" or "swing," but in the context of the song I think the former is most likely the proper reading. The line takes the gravity of pagan ritual, with our mean spirited magnate not just crippling flies for amusement but as a meager offering to kickstart a return to a growth friendly season. The need for a return neatly foreshadowing the impending famine that will dominate the song's later segments. The "lot's to do" prelude seems significant as well. Perhaps focusing on preparations for the brutal winter to come would have had a greater affect than falling back on simple superstition?
Whatever his failing, our man is in for rough times. At around 3:40, the song shifts into its second act, with the narrative voice shifting from the third to the first person. Mercer starts with a whisper, the gravity of an impending crisis slowly dawning on him. "London is cold, but the wheat, wheat, wheat's got to last." Again the delivery is slow and clear and the sonic clutter brushed away to give it deep resonance. Krug hits a few notes from the deep end of his ivories, but at this point he's there for drama and not melodic thrust. Almost immediately Carey's back to a full wail, slipping further and further into desperation. His cries that the "wheat's got-got-got-got to last" continue to suggest that there's hunger ahead and there's nothing he can possibly do to stop its cruel march. To cement the unease comes a face quaking guitar solo from Mercer, epic like Tommy Verlaine, but too frayed and frazzled to blind you with sheer competence. It's as if some wizard physically grabbed and stretched one of the band's compacted guitar squiggles with the magic taffy pull resulting in liquid emotion. After he's given a few seconds to shine, Krug doubles him both with his continually brilliant supporting keys and also on background vocal. More weight is piled onto the already heavy refrain.
Then, in a trick that reminds me of Roxy Music's fabulous multi-part "If There is Something," the song gets sparser, prettier and more intense still. For a minute, with hardly any accompaniment at all, Mercer repeats the line, "When am I ever gonna feel the sting of your sun?" "Sting" is the key word here, shifting the meaning slightly to imply inevitable pain in the wish fulfillment the protagonist so desperately needs. It's a gorgeous, wrenching climax, or it would be if the song were actually over.
Almost at once, all the players come in for a bow, repeatedly hitting their instruments furiously. Mercer, who's been effectively sedate for several minutes now, yelps and wheezes to the best of his ability. "I was a singer, ooooh-ow-ow," he screams. It's not clear how this fits into the song's loose narrative to this point. Has our man Carey stepped beyond the bonds of his own song, breaking the fourth wall? If he was a singer, then what the hell is he now? The answer, it seems, is something more.
There have been catchier, more universal, more immediate songs released this year. But artistically "better"? I'm not so sure...
Frog Eyes - "Bushels"
(live @ UC Berkeley, May 4th, 2007)
In which Carey displayed his even bonkers-er live vocals for an outdoor campus crowd of maybe ten people. Sigh, Frog Eyes is not for mass consumption, even at Liberal U. At least the bicycle dude in the red pants is won over enough to come back.
// Frog Eyes - buy
// Frog Eyes - website
// Frog Eyes - MySpace
Posted by Jeff Klingman at June 4, 2007 04:00 PM
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