20 Minute Loop
Decline of Day
[Fortune; 2001]
Rating: 8.5
I know it, and you know it. Quirky, after many years of misuse and abuse, has
become a dirty word, and an even dirtier songwriting approach. And that's simply
because, to be quirky today is to try to be quirky-- to desperately seek
to be off-kilter and innovative, and often, to toe some quasi-philosophical
aesthetic line, with the ultimate goal of making a lasting impression on the
listener's mind. Unfortunately, quirk usually comes gloved so thick in irony
and contrivance as to render its core components devoid of sincerity.
Which is why I will abstain from using the word again in this review. 20 Minute
Loop is one of the more refreshing musical experiences I've had in months and
months. Decline of Day practically begs for stupid music review fantasy
hybrid-type descriptions. So here goes: say you've got XTC. Now subtract the TC,
and pair the remainder of John Doe and Exene Cervenka with J. Robbins in a
six-by-six cell haunted by Frank Black's muse, with only a Radiohead CD, a
Flannery O'Connor novel, and occasional visits from the members of Seely to
break the psychosis.
This San Francisco quintet sounds like they should be from Georgia, not from
the land of tech-sector meltdowns and hippie nostalgia shops. But then again,
nothing much makes sense with 20 Minute Loop. And we don't have to travel far to
prove the point. "Jubilation," the sinister carnival-pop opener, couples
stomach-achy, saccharine sing-songiness with stomach-turning lyrical surrealism.
It pays to quote at length: "Bracketed diamonds, billowing smoke/ A terrible heft,
behind that pitchfork/ A torn up napkin, uneaten meat/ A bloody steak knife,
bunions cut off the feet/ A crippled Arab, face in the street/ Searching the
asphalt for her missing teeth." Yuck to the lyrics, but yum to the unbelievable
melody and the slick harmonizing of Kelly Atkins and Greg Giles.
"Moses" follows, parting the Red Sea of wack, uninspired indie-pop songwriting
with beautiful melodic interplay that recalls the more playful moments of
Burning Airlines, only enriched with a feminine presence that was always so
sorely wanting in that band's macho compositions. "All Manner" brings a solid
pop hammer down on whatever reservations or resistance you might still be
harboring. My favorite track, it uses mind-blowingly good harmonies and just
plain pretty music to tell the creepy story of an unlucky couple's drive through
the country. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, and the ill-fated lovers find
their car interred in a snowdrift. As their minds and heart-rates slow to a still,
they contemplate their icy preservation and lament the eventuality of their
bodies being discovered "later in the Spring thaw." Their dying wish: "Let us
stay like this forever, once and for all." Don't roll your eyes, motherfucker.
"Daughter's Down" showcases Greg Giles' obvious affinity and talent for weird,
chromatic vocal lines. Again, a melody that's damned near impossible to dislodge
from your consciousness is wrapped around grotesque subject matter: this time,
an incestuous father-daughter relationship. "Pilot Light" constitutes just
another bomb-blast in the relentless melodic attack. The musical break in the
oddly timed chorus features a mind-bending keyboard melody, and the second
"chorus" (which in no way resembles the first) has Kelly Atkins sounding like
the B-52's Kate Pierson.
When, you ask, does it stop? I mean, they have to foul things up eventually,
right? Well, no, not quite yet. The album's title track, in a just universe,
would be a pop-radio staple, and would buy these deserving characters financial
security and mass adoration. But as W is wont to say, the world is full of
iniquity, evil-doers and legions of poor dupes with shit taste. Nevertheless,
this track is pure gold. The lyrics are all Kelly Atkins, and are arguably, in
their straightforwardly way, the album's best: "I can lie here for hours while
you breathe/ Indulging my doubts/ All the dreams that escape you come to me/ And
burn themselves out/ I am hanging from threads that/ To the hands of the Fates/
They have dressed me in a pale jealousy/ And left me to wait/ And in the morning
we won't remember/ Why we're finessing a way of keeping each other down/ We'll
stay up all night/ It's force of habit/ And that's not how it ought to be."
"Mechanical Angels" is the album's last slice of perfection before sliding into
merely "good" territory. It begins with lullaby-- soft-picked, guitar arpeggios
that break into a chorus of inexplicable do-do-do's that out anything Frank Black
has done in the past decade. The album's remaining five tracks range from
memorable (the dreamy, but dirge-like "Elephant") to just okay-but-not-so-memorable
(the Dumbek-adorned "Mompha Termina"). Still, even if you were to cut out the
final five, the first magically good seven tracks are worth as much as the last
ten releases you thought were good combined. It's been a while since I thought
I could only do an album a disservice by trying to describe it. What else can I
say?
-Camilo Arturo Leslie, November 30th, 2001