Vincent Gallo
When
[Warp; 2001]
Rating: 7.7
Point to any portion of Vincent Gallo's career--
from his acting in any of a number of underrated independent films, to his work
with Jean Michel Basquiat in the short-lived New York band Gray; from the writing
at his self-maintained website, to his twisted directorial debut Buffalo 66--
and you'll always find something a bit off-kilter. Of course, it's in this very
awkwardness that Gallo's appeal lies.
In the aforementioned film-- parts of which are admittedly autobiographical--
Gallo plays a loser named Billy who returns, upon his release from prison, to his
hometown. On his first day back, he kidnaps a young girl, takes her to his
parents' house for dinner, forces her to pretend she's his wife, and then
proceeds to wander around town with her trailing closely behind. Over the
course of the film, Billy realizes that there's nothing for him in this town,
that he's every bit as lost as he'd been before jail. He recognizes the girl
as his possible salvation, but finds himself too petrified to act upon this
realization. Gallo wrote, directed, scored, and starred in the film; this
hands-on approach no doubt the cause of much of its emotional resonance. He
approaches When, his solo musical debut, in much the same way. Not only
is Gallo the sole writer, performer and producer credited here, but his songs
are imbued with the same emotional nakedness that made Buffalo 66 so
engrossing.
Throughout the album, but on "Honey Bunny" in particular, Gallo appears to be
mocking traditional lovesong lyrics. "Huh-uh-nee Buh-huh-nee," he sings in a
faux-Prekopian swagger, dragging out each syllable, pausing between each pair as
though to decide which romantic cliché best fits his intentions: "My Bay-ay-bee...
girl... friend." Later, on "Laura," he repeats the titular figure's name a few
dozen times, growing more desperate with each go-round. The sheer vapidity of
these lyrics gives When the feel of a very private affair, like we're
standing outside the door to Gallo's room while he sits on his bed inside,
guitar in hand, wallowing in self-pity.
This voyeuristic effect is reminiscent
of much of Smog's earlier work, though the means by which the two artists achieve
it couldn't be further apart. The ingenuity here is not in the lyrics, but
entirely in their delivery. Listening to When, one can't help but wonder
if this is how Andy Kaufmann's audiences felt. As Gallo speak-sings, "Goodnight
baby/ Sleep tight here with me/ We can lay in the bed, you and me/ And I won't
go away or leave you alone/ Sweetie-pie/ Baby/ Sleep tight/ Here with me," on
"Apple Girl," we're left scratching our heads, wondering if the effect is
intentional or not.
I can only assume, based on Gallo's work as a filmmaker and his arrangements on
some of When's more ambitious tracks, that it is. Gallo may be
self-indulgent, but he's certainly not oblivious. "I Wrote This Song for the Girl
Paris Hilton," the disc's opener, begins with a short looped sample of an
unwavering horn note, with guitar and drums in the background. Slowly, Gallo
builds a song out of other sampled instruments-- a guitar here, an organ there--
piling them atop the relentless three-second foundation. The arrangement is
clunky in the same way that a U.S. Maple song is, but this doesn't diminish its
beauty. If anything, it serves as allegory for a mind we're led to assume is
somewhat shaky and nervous. Consider it an early warning that the songs which
follow are going to be a bit off kilter. The instrumentation is lush as can be,
while the ever-present loop has a lulling effect that prepares listeners for the
slow but beautiful ride through Gallo's fragile psyche to come.
When he samples an old recording of vibraphones on "Was," it's not the melody,
but the actual sound that affects. Gallo's placement of the flat, faded, somewhat
muted old recording over his own full, lush guitar strokes makes for an
intriguing parallel. The sample, much like his character in Buffalo 66
and-- we're drawn to assume-- Gallo himself, doesn't quite belong. Yet, there's
an undeniable beauty to the unlikely pairing.
Musically, most of When is sparse, reminiscent of the more haunting
moments on Archer Prewitt's Gerroa Songs or a more subtle, less dynamic
Bedhead. A lightly picked guitar and barely audible bass make up the bulk of the
accompaniment to Gallo's nearly androgynous crooning, with the occasional string
section that fades out as quickly as it came in. The result, when added to the
often repetitive vocals is captivating, almost hypnotic. But once again, Gallo
proves he's more aware than he lets on. On the next track, "My Beautiful White
Dog," a gently plucked guitar continues to wander aimlessly, but it does so over
a dirty old drum loop and an ominous string section which serves as a wake-up
call, yanking the listener to attention after the calm opening tracks.
There's no denying that When is an exercise is self-indulgence. Much like
Bufallo 66, it's an effort that, while deserving of respect and maybe even
a bit of envy, is riddled with flaws. Just as some of the characters in his film
lacked a backstory or a sense of purpose, so does When. Though gorgeous
and inexplicably well-crafted, it lacks scope; far too content to swim in circles
in a pool of Gallo's emotions to ever strike ground that truly resonates. And
even though their ambiguity often lends the lyrics much of their weight, it'd be
nice to hear Gallo take a swing at something with a bit more depth than, "I'm
always sad when I'm lonely/ I'm always sad."
Still, When is a gorgeous collection of songs which paint an undeniably
clear picture of their creator. If, with his next project-- be it music, film
or something else-- Gallo attempts to broaden his range, to understand something
besides himself, there's no telling what heights he might reach.
-David M. Pecoraro, November 7th, 2001