Beck
Midnite Vultures
[DGC]
Rating: 8.5
Beck's career currently coasts through the epoch when the hip and haut monde earn merit
badges for casual disses. The underground, underdog darling phase waves quietly in the
rearview mirror. Those who use music as status will have moved on to newer sprouts. "Beck
is so 1996," a kid with thick glasses will proclaim. Parents have been awaiting
Midnite Vultures. Naturally, when sales inevitably dip and Mark Seliger's shudder
stops snapping, Beck will once again be en vogue with the arty.
I hate to burst your indie
rock bubble, but the vast majority of great albums come out on major labels. 14 of Pitchfork's
top 20 albums of the 1990s came out on major labels. The rest were on 4AD, Sub Pop and Matador,
which are just huge independent labels distributed by major labels. Sorry, elitists, sometimes
big companies and money are right. The Talking Heads, OK Computer, My Bloody Valentine,
Paul's Boutique, and Prince couldn't have done it without the company dollar. Of course,
the company dollar also pumps out Jimmy Ray and "Shake Your Bon Bon;" and occasionally a record
like the Dismemberment Plan's Emergency & I (which was financed by Interscope) slips
through the cracks. But for every Ricky Martin pelvis disaster, there's a thousand Mathletes.
Beck wonderfully blends Prince, the Talking Heads, Paul's Boutique, "Shake Your Bon Bon,"
and Mathlete on Midnite Vultures, his most consistent and playful album yet. (Well,
okay, maybe not Mathlete.)
Successful pastiche is all about restraint. There's a thin line between "Brazil" and "Johnny
Mnemonic," the Beastie Boys and LFO's "Summer Girls." On Mellow Gold, Beck spat and
spilled too much and too often, and the record suffered from clutter. There was a pinch of
Mathlete in those old lo-fi tactics. Anybody who yearns for the old days of Beck should be
given a copy of "Fume," an empty Hefty bag, and their inhalent of choice.
Beck has finally perfected his stage presense in the studio-- an unmatchable mix of goofy
piety and ambiguous intent. Genius needs money. The Beatles couldn't have made Sgt.
Pepper's if they had to tour and work second jobs. Obviously, Midnite Vultures
can't compare to the Beatles, but in the late '90s, who else can we turn to for perfectly
crafted, catholic, inventive pop music?
Midnite Vultures bursts with the rich texture that only multiple tracks and massive
mixing boards the length of Oldsmobiles can produce. The 64 layers of "Sexx Laws" unfold in
stereo headphones. You can hear the chink of change, the flutter of cash, the digital gloss
of wire transactions-- the beautiful sound of money. Your indie label can't afford funk like
this.
"Nicotine and Gravy" breaks from Odelay retread into an anthemic bridge that
recalls the climax of Sgt. Pepper's, and warzone and satellite bleeps as a falsetto
voice cries, "I don't wanna die tonight." "Get Real Paid" envisions Kraftwerk on Cash Money
Records with pugilistic Stevie Wonder choruses. Beck makes more obvious poses on "Hollywood
Freaks" and "Debra," fashioning himself after Master P and R. Kelly respectively, but "Milk
and Honey" carried the weight with sheer brilliance. Arena choruses explode from shuffling
verses. It sounds like Prince dry- humping Lynyrd Skynyrd in the sky, and later, a Talking
Heads- esque interlude and guest guitarist Johnny Marr rub it in on the song's Pink Floydian
outro. Just look at all those rich bands Beck managed to fuse.
Lyrically, Beck's trimmed the fat. The remainders are still a bit sinewy, yet built around a
cohesive image or theme, which is new turf for Beck. A narrative or two even pops up. But
mostly, the theme is money and sex. All the talk of getting paid and laid perhaps influenced
my general reflections on the music expressed above. I mean, the world needs a great money
and sex album every so often. Money and sex can be discussed intelligently. On Midnite
Vultures, Beck's tunes are wrapped in fur, silk, lace, gold, sequins, cotton, leather,
pearl, and diamond. And sonically, it's one of the busiest albums of recent history.
While the topics may seem base and juvenile to the upturned nose, I can't help think of Kurt
Vonnegut, drawing his asterisk sphincters and subliming speaking for his time. Somewhere, Kurt
Vonnegut and Beck are sitting on a big pile of cash.
-Brent DiCrescenzo