…In listening to a new CD I often find myself fascinated with the decisions made in setting the order of songs. What an artist selects as the first song says a lot about their expectations for how the listener will experience the music. Often, an musician chooses one of the most accessible songs, eager to make a good impression and not wanting the listener to tune out immediately.
Interestingly, St. Vincent (the musical identity of prog-rock guitarist-singer Annie Clark) chooses a very different strategy on Strange Mercy. Rather than the obvious choice of starting with the listener-friendly Cruel, she starts out with the intense and idiosyncratic Chloe in the Afternoon before moving straight on to Cruel. Chloe is a really odd song to start an album — more of a provocation than an invitation (as if saying, “Don’t get too comfortable here”), consisting of a disjointed blend of keyboards, bass, guitars, drums, and an odd chorus that’s just the song title repeated multiple times. It’s an engaging song that seems to be about the sexual adventures of a femme fatale (“No kisses/No real names”), but it certainly knocks you off-balance the first few listens.
But Clark follows with one of the catchiest songs here in Cruel, which blends so many good things into an engaging mix — a catchy melody, an engaging guitar solo, and interesting lyrics about alienation and social expectations (“They could take or leave you/So they took you and they left you/How could they be so casually cruel?”).
Along the same lines as Cruel is Surgeon, which is built around a line from Marilyn Monroe’s diary (“Best finest surgeon/Come cut me open”). As recounted in an interview, Clark takes that line to build a song about longing for an easy fix to all that is broken in yourself.
Northern Lights is probably my favorite song on the album, a perfect showcase of Clark’s guitar talents. I particularly like how her final over-processed guitar solo of the song seems to push closer and closer toward some sort of breaking point and then… rather than turning back at the last moment, it simply breaks across into chaotic euphoria.
Every song on this album is good for a different reason, from the mellow Strange Mercy and Champagne Year to the hyper-kinetic Neutered Fruit to the steamy Dilettante. But I’ll highlight just one more: Year of the Tiger, which ends the album. Starting with a driving drum beat and the great opening lines “When I was young/Coach called me the tiger/I always had/A knack with the danger” the song proceeds to tell a tale of America in recession (“I had to be the best of the bourgeoisie/Now my kingdom for a cup of coffee”). Musically, the song contains many of the elements found in the rest of the CD, shifting between a long stretch with mellow guitar and keyboards and a drum-fueled ending.
This is one of those albums that contain a potent mix of technical skill, artistic imagination, and catchy songsmithing, but that don’t mix them so well that the various elements disappear — like a stew not a melting pot. Reminds me a lot of Sufjan Stevens’ 2010 album The Age of Adz. I’ve enjoyed it a lot.
Next week: Kate Bush


