The The
NakedSelf
[Interscope]
Rating: 8.2
If Roxy Music's Bryan Ferry was the quintessential soulful white-boy crooner
of sleek pop, Matt Johnson is a sort of flipside: the quintessential purveyor
of bleak, gritty, introspective emotion. Johnson's diverse arrangements and
intimate songwriting set him apart from a host of other contemporaries who
don't have the confidence to pull off direct statements about the heavier
issues-- religion, the meaning of life, unrequited love, all-pervading
lust, suicidal destruction.
It's these deep spiritual, carnal, and moralistic pools that The The most
often dive headlong into. You'd have to pick the back catalogue pretty thin
to find an example of Johnson grasping at straws. Profound, then, is a good
word to describe his consistently haunting songs, which, even at their most
detached, resonate somehow deep in their core. It's as if the distilled
essence of each and every one is never hidden by the production, no matter
how detailed.
Eight years on from their classic, Dusk, and five more since their
competent, if unnecessary Hank Williams cover album, Hanky Panky,
NakedSelf once again finds Matt Johnson in his element, tackling
issues of alienation, global corruption, and urban squalor and decay with
potent, more succinct lyrics and some of his most affecting melodies in
ages.
Johnson has always been the driving force behind The The, but he's managed
to surrounded himself with tasteful, restrained, and prodigiously talented
sidemen throughout the years. The band's alumni-- like Johnny Marr and D.C.
Collard (whose keyboard work on Dusk was particularly essential to
its success)-- have always made sure that The The albums were indeed a band
effort. NakedSelf finds Johnson with a whole new group of collaborators,
all of whom ably acquit themselves. Earl Harvin's hard-rocking, spare yet
varied approach to drumming provides a muscular backdrop for Johnson's powerful
vocals and the pervading atmosphere of a city's dingy shadows and less-travelled
side streets.
It's sort of a cliché to talk about an artist's "maturation," especially one
the occurs 20 years into their career, but the direct nature of many of the
songs on NakedSelf make it hard to ignore. "My life is halfway through/
And I still haven't done/ What I'm here to do," Johnson powerfully emotes on
"Soul Catcher," one of the album's immediate highlights. The suspicious INXS-
via- Dylan cue-card introduction on "Global Eyes" ("Hypnotize/ Homogenize/ Shut
your eyes/ Don't criticize") is a bit worrisome, but fortunately that's where
the similarities end. Johnson consistently marries thoughtful, vaguely
apocalyptic lyrics to strong and dusty guitar figures, all skewered with the
sharp aim of a perfectionist craftsman, and stamped with his unmistakable
creative seal.
That said, NakedSelf is far from easy listening-- not even for the
seasoned fan. It's by far the dirtiest, darkest album Matt Johnson has
released to date, lacking the rather 80's sheen of Infected and Mind
Bomb, the ambiguous production of his 4AD debut and follow-ups, and the
slight indulgences and retreats of Dusk. The rhythm section chugs and
clangs along loosely and purposefully, and all manner of both deliberately
strummed and on- the- verge- of- imploding guitar lines fill any sonic space not
already occupied by Johnson's vocals.
This isn't an album likely to evoke memories of summer passions. Menacing
lyrics like, "The train rises up out of the dark/ Above the boarded up
boulevards/ And burnt out cars," probably won't become sing-song choruses for
drunken college parties. And certainly, these songs aren't as immediately
accessible as recent hook-driven efforts by Grandaddy or the Magnetic Fields.
But these aren't Matt Johnson's intentions. Nakedself requires your
interest-- you have to be willing to sit down and actively listen to Johnson
unravel a few yarns out of his deeply troubled psyche. Background music, this
isn't. But that's okay. Let the hipper-than-thou have their wallpaper cocktail
music. The rest of us can be shaken to our cowering little cores by this
emotional beast of an album, unleashed by one of the truly formidable musical
mavericks of our time.
-Dan Gardopee