Archer Prewitt
Gerroa Songs
[Carrot Top]
Rating: 7.3
This eight-song, 27-minute LP is clearly of a particular time and place-- not
so much historically as personally. It's an intimate moment captured in sound.
As Archer Prewitt himself accurately phrased it, these songs are "documents."
Recorded live to eight-track in March 1999 (with a little post-production
overdubbing), Gerroa Songs arose out of a vacation of sorts. Tony Dupre,
a friend and engineer, invited Prewitt and others to a haunted, dilapidated
ex-Nunnery by the seaside cliffs of Gerroa, New South Wales, Australia. During
the day, they swam, relaxed, talked, watched leaping dolphins, and recorded
pleasant songs. During the evening, they watched the house become dark,
listened to insects drone on, and recorded gloomy songs.
They never saw the much-rumored "phantom lady" who supposedly appeared in a
chair at the end of the long dark hall. But she seems to have surfaced on the
opening track, "Gerroa." Two computer glitches and an abandoned drumbeat pass
by before the song ascends into waves of rattling and whirring machinery, like
a specter floating among the hanging pots and pans of an industrial kitchen.
It's hard to say if this is intentionally orchestrated or if it's the ambient
noise of the building. That it fades away for a quaint guitar and simple
percussion suggests the former. But the noises return, this time accompanied
by a cacophony of deep cello notes, eerie moaning, and discordant noises
reminiscent of parts of Jackie-O Motherfucker's Fig. 5. As the guitars
and drums reenter, these sounds pull out again, but for one high, sustained
violin stroke that holds for the last minute of the five-minute song.
Following "Gerroa" comes "The Bay," an brooding two-minute guitar instrumental
that sounds recorded in a large, empty room with a bare wooden floor. Waves,
wind and birds are barely audible in the background, adding a natural depth
to the sound that, while completely opposite from the studio depth of his
finely-crafted sophomore album, 1999's White Sky, is equally effective.
On "Meant to Be," these ambient sounds are even more audible, as are the
insects that Prewitt alludes to in the liner notes. Finally unveiling his soft
vocals, he sings, "Meant to be, yeah, you were the one/ Meant to be, now never."
This must have been one of the night songs.
"Along the Coast" is the first song that one can be sure was recorded in the
afternoon. Featuring only Prewitt's deft guitarwork and the occasional
interjecting cello or background harmonies, the song is like much of his
other work: subdued, but not sad. Likewise, the strings and guitar of "Waves
Waltz," the Nick Drake-ian fingerpicking of "Tell Me Now," and the beautiful,
personal closer, "Her Magic" are more similar to the pensive, autumnal
White Sky. However, with the exception of "Her Magic," these entries
aren't quite as engaging.
But the EP's standout track, "Another Peace of Mind," is among Prewitt's best
efforts. A simple drumbeat returns-- bass drum, hi-hat, snare-- as does light
guitar strumming. "The time it takes you to be late," sings Prewitt. "Beware
the folks that you berate/ Take care the steps you have to take." The song
then leaps down into a sublime epiphany of deep bass, evocative strings,
and the worrisome lines, "Never going to find/ Another peace of mind."
Surprisingly-- given the mellow, lush White Sky-- gloominess and
underproduction suit Prewitt well, but this different approach allows for
decidedly less hummable melodies to balance out the quieter, sunken
confessionals. Still, Gerroa Songs is successful at what it attempts
to accomplish. And while Prewitt's experience recording Gerroa Songs
is probably more memorable than our experience listening to it, that he would
share his pleasant, creepy vacation with us is enough to warrant
appreciation.
-Ryan Kearney