Nine Inch Nails
The Fragile
[Nothing/Interscope]
Rating: 2.0
1:00am: I've gathered my supplies and I'm going to sit this one straight
through. Trent's going to keep me up for at least another two hours with
his latest bloated indulgence, The Fragile. So I've got a pot of
coffee. It's black. Pitch black. As black as your fucking soul!
And I'm typing on this machine. This machine is grinding me down. I feel
like a fucking machine! Grrrarrrgh!
9:00pm: My first experience with The Fragile, as is the case with
most new CDs, comes in my Honda. I'm sitting at a red light on Webster and
Damen, waiting for a left turn. Trent Reznor is screaming, "Tear a hole
exquisite red/ Fuck the rest and stab it dead" over a troop of industrial
guitars and digital whining. I yawn with such stretching intensity that
I miss my turn light. The entire situation strikes me as particularly
humorous. Here I am-- a 24- year- old white guy with floppy bangs, wearing
a tie, driving a Honda-- and all the bile Trent Reznor can must muster up
from his supposedly scorched soul makes me yawn.
Sometime over the last decade, music that is intrinsically meant to be
menacing (i.e. Nine Inch Nails) has become a banal syndicated- action hour
soundtrack. It's easy to imagine the overproduced grind of "The Wretched"
blaring through a TV screen as Nightman kicks a henchman off a roof. This
stuff could be the score to "The Crow 4: In Space." And this time around,
Trent has unanimously failed to shock anyone above the age of 15 and under
the age of 54. I mean, have you listened to old Judas Priest lately? Now,
this is not to say music must be confrontational, although the best of it
typically is. However, in a pop society that has become numb to industrial
sounds through ESPN2 and Surge commercials, it's no longer interesting or
tolerable to base one's entire output on volume and amplified cliches.
And so "Somewhat Damaged" continues to pound out its same four notes.
Systematically, layers of crust, fuzz, dirt, and whatever else Reznor can
scrape off the walls in his studio are piled on top, pounding out the same
four- note scale. 1-2-3-4. 1-2-3-4. 1-2-3-4. Ooh, wow, did he just say
"fuck?" Trent, Holden Caulfield rubbed that out 50 years ago.
8:00pm: "Hello?" asks Ryan.
"Okay, I'm going to read you something," I say.
"Oh, hey dude. Um, sure."
"'She shines/ In a world full of ugliness/ She matters/ When everything
is meaningless.'"
"Oh, man."
"'Sometimes I have everything/ Yet I wish I felt something.'"
"Are these lyrics?"
"'Underneath it all/ We feel so small/ The Heavens fall / But still we
crawl.'"
"Haha. What is this?"
"Pleading and/ Needing and/ Bleeding and/ Breeding and/ Feeding/ Exceeding."
"Rhyme-y."
"Now everything is clear/ I can erase the fear/ I can disapper."
"Man, what is this. Is this some emo album?"
"I am every fucking thing and just a little more/ And when I suck you off
not a drop will go to waste/ It's really not so bad, you know, once you get
past the taste, yeah/ Starfuckers."
"No. Oh, no. No. It's Nine Inch Nails!"
1:49am: "Even Deeper," a track mixed by Dr. Dre, spits aluminum riffs
into my headphones. The entire concept of pairing of Dr. Dre and Nine Inch
Nails, a match maid in Kornboy heaven (or most likely the Interscope
commissary) is laughable. Shuffling beats squirt under "Blade Runner" booms
and fathoms of string samples. The end product sounds entirely similar to
the rest of this 104- minute albatross. The token celebrity stroking of
this studio marriage is fittingly overwrought, unnecessary and done with
questionable intent. From the sound of it, Trent cares little to broaden
his palate from this rap/ rock union. Without the liner notes, one would
never pick this song as "the Dr. Dre track."
Ironically, a man hailed by his legion of testoster- drones as "genius"
often leans heavily on the work of other, better sound wizards. Adrian
Belew, Steve Albini, and Alan Moulder conspicuously leave their fingerprints
all over The Fragile. In other words, whenever something sounds
cool, it's most likely coming from one of these other men, who have worked
on such mind- blowing classics like Talking Heads' Remain in Light,
Slint's Spiderland, and My Bloody Valentine's Loveless,
respectively. The constipated drone of "The Day the World Went Away"
unabashedly attempts to mimic My Bloody Valentine's sculpted cacophony.
Unfortunately, from the hands of an unsubtle goth, the result is strained
fuzz.
2:00am: Trent Reznor is the worst, most predictable, most uninspired
lyricist working today. The freshman gloom spouted throughout The
Fragile are only making it easier for the Goth Lyric Generators on
the web. Copy the word decay from this sentence. Paste it into a Word
document. Highlight it. Press Shift-F7. Every synonym that appears on
your thesaurus screen pops up in Trent Renzor's pitiful poetry. Coming
from the mouth of a steadily plumping, thirty- something recluse (who,
incedentally, is bearing striking resemblance to Phil Hartman's SNL
Frankenstein character these days), it's just sad. Does he collect
candelabras and "Spawn" comics? I guarantee it. In the five years it's
taken to complete The Fragile, Trent seemingly watched Dark City at
least 40 times. It's insulting to hear Trent and his PR firm talk up the
"radical departure" and pop flourishes on this record because the record
sounds 100% similar to Broken and The Downward Spiral. Or
more accurately, it's like combining Broken and The Downward
Spiral. Clever.
2:45am: The gentle piano plunking of "La Mer" lulls me to sleep momentarily
on its second time around. It's not the gentle ambience of it, though,
since this loud sludge could knock out a speed addict. The Fragile
is the most taxing record I've ever had to work through in my five years of
reviewing CDs. I mean, even the Beatles failed to make a double album
without throwing in some filler. Why does Trent Reznor thinking he can
succeed? I'm actually glad Billy Corgan used up The Infinite Sadness.
Reznor would jump all over a title like that.
It's difficult to decide where to even begin trimming The Fragile.
It's so stunningly monotonous. Any bit of it could be lost without notice.
I mean, when the instrumental interludes carry an album, it's a blaring neon
sign flashing "stay away!" I pity the kids of the style- over- substance
generation-- and yes, it will only be kids-- who enjoy this album. Kids,
high school isn't as bad as it seems. You'll grow out of this phase. Save
yourself, or your parents, the 25 bucks. The Fragile's length begins
to make sense in this context. 104 minutes is the perfect duration for
those post- dinner, pre- "X-Files" periods of "nobody understands me"
bedroom isolation sit-ins.
3:00am: Before getting back into The Fragile, I peruse the liner
notes and artwork. David Carson of "Raygun" fame laid out the artwork for
The Fragile. And what a fitting look! Carson, whose design work
broke new ground for typography, lost touch years ago. The originator of
the 1990s' trademark "crusty look" is analogous to the fat- bottomed disco
fonts of the '70s or the thin sans- serif of deco. But guess what? It's
almost 2000 and the world needs a new look and a new sound. Carson and
Reznor will forever be remembered as 1990s pop figures that helped create
an identifiable logo for the decade, and little else. Trent, you are Flock
of Seagulls. The Fragile embodies everything wrong with this decade--
hype, letdown, technological fetishism, empty rage, financial bloat, bombast,
self- loathing, and indifference to anything truly important and interesting
flowing underneath the surface. Trent Reznor is Chris Gaines.
3:20am: "Starfuckers, Inc." That's pretty much all I have to say in
criticism of this album. That sums it right up. Do you or don't you want
to own an album with a song called "Starfuckers, Inc?" Besides the
snickering potty- mouthed title, it's one of the most blatantly hypocritical
attacks ever put to tape. It's a widely- publicized attack on Marilyn
Manson. There are several lyrical references to the gangly idiot such as
"I'm one of the beautiful ones" and "My god pouts on the cover of a
magazine." And how are these jabs delivered? Why, in a song which sounds
exactly like Marilyn Manson (and also borrows from Carly Simon), by
a man who pouts on the cover of Rolling Stone, Alternative Press, Spin, etc.
In essence, Reznor is Marilyn Manson without the makeup (which is a bit like
Kiss without the makeup). The Fragile is simply Music for 'The
Elder for the digital age. I take comfort knowing that the passing of
another decade will make this record seem as amusingly insincere as 10CC.
And at this point, I'm angry, hungry, and frustrated. In fact, I feel like
kinda like Trent Reznor. Is this the grand design? After over two hours of
listening to his incessant whining and grating, I've become the very model
of his audience.
-Brent DiCrescenzo