8/16/2019
Florid prose vs. terse prose. Sentences that stretch and sprawl, soaking up sun rays and staring down moon beams. Sentences that bob and weave. Bop and bite. Prize winners vs. participants.
The problem is, I've positioned both styles as opponents. Hemingway fans cannot be Faulkner readers. Franzen readers are genetically predisposed to hate the works of Elmore Leonard.
(No, the problem is, I just cited four authors, all male.)
How often is it
just about the finished product? The separation of creator and consumer, as necessary for overall health as fresh air and cold water, is the final judge, and the less commensurate the growth, the harsher the sentence. Too bad. The discrepancy keeps art fun, and nostalgia sad. (Like, matching tear tracks scorching your cheeks. Like, groping your chest bright red 'cause you can't punch a hole through.)
Why should the leaders love the legions, anyway? They show up late, and when they're not hiding, they're chattering. They say they're gonna, they really really wanna, but they don't. Fifteen dollars for thirty-six minutes that last forever, or fifteen dollars for a fundraiser started by a Vermont man intent on surprising his wife with an Akita pup for her birthday, 'cause that's a great choice for a first-time dog owner.
The stubborn souls deserve admiration, not pity. They hear "why" and reply "why not."
Misery loves cramped spaces, so for their first new full-length since 2015, Sleater-Kinney linked up with Annie Clark, who dominates under the alias St. Vincent. (There's choice gossip here, but since the sex lives of strangers fascinates me as much as the sex lives of friends, this review bypasses hearsay and "hearddone.") This news hit fans like a boot to the butt. Would it be a political record in the style of
One Beat? How much of St. Vincent's pantheistic aesthetic would be integrated into S-K's resolute rock formation? Remember when David Byrne tried to make the B-52's sound like the Talking Heads, what's the odds?
On July 1, 2019, with the official release date a month out, Janet Weiss announced her departure from the group she galvanized. "The band is heading in a new direction and it is time for me to move on," read part of her official statement. Response ranged from disbelief to sorrow to rage. That Weiss walked
after the new record's completion, and with promotional duties on the horizon, inspired a mess of messy talk, and Internet investigators flipped rocks and skipped stones in search of clues.
Four months later, during a podcast, Janet elaborated, explaining that when she asked Carrie Brownstein and Corin Tucker if they considered her "a creative equal," they answered in the negative. Unable to reconcile the band's outward message with the reality of their inner workings, she left. Her bandmates in the lurch? With her integrity intact? Depended on who you asked (or who asked themselves). Easy to hate the overly self-aware celebrity; hard to fault the wise old punk. C & C were fine in being truthful with their friend, and in deceiving their fanbase. Understandable, if not commendable--fans aren't friends, y'know.
The anticipation for
The Center Won't Hold did not diminish. But the texture changed. Wrinkles, spikes, spots, smooth areas were few and far between. Which must've pleased C & C Music Factory. After all, they're just as punk rock for persisting as Janet is for quitting.
"The Center Won't Hold"--St. Vincent's presence, and influence, is instantly apparent. Welcome, twitched users. Old habits for new habitats. No one's lying, everyone's down.
Humans play with robots to prevent robots playing with humans. (Maybe Annie and the girls could start a new group called Tobor.)
"Hurry On Home"--An awful sultry panic attack, an all-timer in the catalogue. Hardworking verses and high impact choruses. One woman's clutter is another woman's clambake.
"Reach Out"--Processed and simplified (per producer's request), "Reach Out" pushes its nerves into the fray like no other song in their history. Connection requires notice; look out. Find a tunnel, or hollow out a mountain.
"Can I Go On"--Carrie suffers from terminal ambivalence. This makes her an intriguing figure, and (I imagine) an exhausting friend. Simulation theory's anthem is here, just in time for the march of April rain.
"Restless"--
Hot Rockin' in the spot! Not all emotions bounce the same, and for proof, look here: there is a Guinness World Record for most iron bars bent in one minute. How does that make you feel?
"Ruins"--Tom from Motel 6 saved Corin from a bear attack one afternoon, is all I can figure. Here's the big difference between the S-K ladies: Carrie expresses how she wants to feel, Corin expresses how she actually feels. I'm done setting up fights...just saying.
"Love"--More new wave than "A New Wave," a dinky-tinky history lesson. The best words are four letters (even pizza, which
is four letters, really). Three Lucy Van Pelts in a van, lament not that it ended; marvel that it ever lasted.
"Bad Dance"--Forever linked in my mind to "Bat Dance," my initial impression is the studio was a hindrance and this'll be a live banger. (I was right. Up the notch and punch the crotch.) This shit makes me wanna spit in my own mouth.
"The Future Is Here"--"Na na" for the naysayers who've deemed the canvas paint-resistant just 'cause they can't hold a brush right. I hope the nurse who passes along my dire diagnosis does so after eating cotton candy sprinkled with peanut brittle.
"The Dog/The Body"-- My preferred strain of anthem, where the subject shifts several times within the course of one listen.
I get Janet's plant-based beef substitute. She's not a force on the album since opportunities lacked. I'm less bothered than others, because the music doesn't strike me as dishonest.
"Broken"--A piano ballad inspired by the would-be dream killers. Every woman is inside this song, whether they want to be or not. There is no "not me," only "not yet."
The reception given
The Center Won't Hold touched all points between "effusive praise" and "comical derision." It wound up on few year-end lists. A classic triumph it is not. A tragic collapse it is not. The riot grrls flipped because
Dig Me Out had melodies on it.
The Hot Rock dulled the band's edge to the point of distraction. I'm still waiting for the official version of
The Woods.
And there's some (assumed) former fans now, decrying the hypocrisy of
their heroines, wishing they themselves had been more careful with the
golden gravy boat, or just simplified their own passions.
