Bobby Conn
Llovessonngs EP
[Thrill Jockey]
Rating: 4.2
Did anyone catch Bobby Conn's article in Vice Magazine about how he
represents the last frontier of rock star sexuality? You know, the one
that goes on and on about how impotence is symbolic of the last "fuck
you" left in rock n' roll (the final frontier being "I'm gay")? Well,
in case you didn't get around to hearing this guy's debut, the utterly
manic Rise Up, this is how you know Bobby Conn: a man with a
lovingly warped obsession with himself and his limp, shriveled place
in it.
Conn is less a musician than the leader of an elaborate musical sideshow.
He gets outrageously talented members of the brain rock set (Jim O'Rourke,
Julie Pomerleau) to partake in his frantic funk orchestra. He screams and
whines and moans across the studio, sometimes spewing about revolution,
sometimes moaning about wanting to see everyone's choda. Some see divinity
in this amalgamation of toasted insanity with three kinds of melted cheese.
Others listen to this balladry mixed with 70's jazz- fusion workouts and
tsk like their slutty stepmothers.
But having received two Bobby Conn records from the Pitchfork Ass Separator
Dispersion Service, I must confess that I've had enough. Llovessonngs
is a four- song EP which continues in the anything- goes vein of his last
record. But whereas Rise Up was saved by some sort of coherent
vision (if you can call fin- de- siecle hormonal nihilism a vision),
Llovessonngs is too brief to make the impression it wants. Ranging
from "Hair" outtakes like the Bobby Conn original "Free Love" to the
whiny, orchestral death balladry of "Without You" (a cover), Conn is
simply too sweaty to sleep beside. The last track "Maria B" is a standout,
however, propelled by a pulsating percussion break and Conn's silky
falsetto.
Regardless of this opinion, one is forced to consider Bobby Conn on one's
own. Conn's crap is urgent and odd enough to at least demand your attention,
if not your adoration. For us, Llovessonngs only had the former.
-Samir Khan