If the main narrative of Annie Clark's self-titled fourth album as St. Vincent was one of struggle, particularly struggling to escape the icy digital era, then bonus track "Del Rio" is the soundtrack to a weekend flight from the social-media madness. The sort where all cellphones are shut-off, the radio is turned to a hush, and honest conversation takes over. Albeit, the conversation that frames the staticy "Del Rio" isn't the most idyllic variety available. The escape we hear isn't one of enjoyment, so much as it is necessity. "You told me I looked spent," St. Vincent exasperatedly warbles. The deliverer of this less than stellar news is an apparent "savior", one St. Vincent would gladly rush down to the river with if it meant redemption. And rush she does, all it takes is one simple look and she's afloat on an electronic river. But even in those restorative waters, there's still fear of "getting some strange looks back from the shore." Underpinned by an eerily downcast guitar figure, it's clear the fear is consuming. While social-media might be easy to shed, the mindset it puts you in is much more difficult to lose.
"Del Rio" is a bonus-track that apparently is only available as a B-Side to "Digital Witness" in Europe and on the Japanese version of St. Vincent.
As my tweets and snapchats will
attest, I went to a house/techno show Friday night I was not made for. Nervously
pacing past girls with fox tails, guys rocking yarmulkes, a few dreadlocked
"tweakers" doing the splits I felt out of my element. I was lightly
sweating, my ears were ringing, and my heart hurt from the colossal bass. All I
had to do was yell "get off of my lawn!" and the transformation into a
crotchety old butterfly would've been complete. That is not to say I couldn't
comprehend or make sense out of what was going on. I love electronic music;
it's a key staple of my daily music diet. However my consumption is generally
done in seclusion. Rather than dance, I nod along and gradually drift off into
whatever world the song conjures. Flailing wildly tends to stymie that process.
On Annie Clark's 4th studio LP
as St. Vincent she sounds like a fish out of water, gasping for air in an
alien desert. Clark says her previous St. Vincent LP Strange
Mercy was all about "internal
struggle" though St. Vincent does more than its fair-share of
sparing. Similar to Arcade Fire's Reflektor,
much of it concerns moving out of the digital-era, like the Kraftwerkian
burbler "Rattlesnake"
which Clark wrote after a commune
with nature went awry. Second single "Digital
Witness" taunts "this is no time for confessing," to remind
us our online "voices" aren't as powerful as we pretend they are.
However,
not everything revolves around 1's and 0'. There in the melodious slow roll of
"Prince Johnny" is Annie Clark praying to "all to make me a real
girl." Describing the effort, Clark commented:""Prince
Johnny" is about a mixture of compassion and hopelessness that you feel
for a friend who’s being very self-destructive, but you also know that you
can’t save them, but you can’t cast any judgment because you’re equally
self-destructive." Hidden amongst the choral vocals and steady
drum-machine ticks, there's the age-old crisis of figuring out how to love
yourself before you can love anyone else. "I Prefer Your
Love" with its wine-drunk drumbeat is a string-heavy paean to Clark's
mother who was temporarily ill last year. When we're younger, we often idolize
our parents. We'd like to believe they're perfect. If anyone is immune to
death's sting it's them. As our eyes grow more adult, we see that isn't the
case. Closing ballad "Severed
Crossed Fingers" is Clark's most honest endeavor. She worries about
being "humiliated by age, terrified of youth" as she alights on a
bar-stool. The greatest fear of growing old isn't necessarily wrinkling, it's the
concern you haven't left your mark. Instead of doing, you cross your fingers;
hoping everything works out.
Of course when you possess the
unmistakable talent Clark does, you don’t have to wish much. If a museum for
"rock" guitar-players opened up, she'd be the first of her 2007 class
to be inducted. Having spent years opening for the likes of: Television, Arcade Fire, Andrew Bird,
and Xiu Xiu;
St. Vincent's style is an overlap of that diverse crowd. She claims
Television's jazz-inspired play, Bird and AF's baroque dramatics, and Xiu Xiu's
loose-cannon crunch. "Birth in Reverse" churns constantly without
ever growing staid. In the chorus break, St. Vincent sends riffs flying off at
geometrically impossible angles. "Regret" is
impeccable for entirely antithetical reasons. Here she finds a crackling part,
riding it until it collapses. Her playing can also be ferocious while keeping
focused. "Huey
Newton" comfortably rests on a bed of twinkling electronics before
being awoken by a marauding guitar. Early in the browsing Wikipedia at 3AM entry,
she breathlessly coos "toothless, but got a big bark," a threat you
don't take into proper consideration until that spine-shaking moment.
In fact, St. Vincent is
an ever-flowing stream of being "shook." "Psychopath"
captures a scene many lovers play through when they realize how much they
depend on one another. "Keep me in your soft sights, when all of the rest
have moved on," St. Vincent begs from under a blanket of soaring strings
and acoustic shuffling. No matter how in love they are, few can avoid freaking
out upon the revelation. St. Vincent has a screwdriver for a guitar to keep her
company, but others aren't so lucky. Some like the dead-eyed zombies of
"Digital Witness" only have humming TVs to help out. Others see their
tears drowned out by Galaga
walls of noise. And there are those "trapped" at an event
they'd love to leave. Physical or digital, the struggle is the same.
