Album Review: Confessions by Nico Muhly & Teitur

Overview

If it weren’t for Bon Iver’s 22, A Million, Nico Muhly and Teitur’s Confessions (Nonesuch, 2016) would easily be my favorite album of 2016. It’s hard to be succinct when describing this album, so bear with me as I do my sometimes-overly-wordy thing.

I discovered the Faroese singer-songwriter Teitur listening to FM radio back in 2009 or 2010. It was weird that I was listening to FM radio at all then, and it is weird that I found something that I liked. Specifically, I heard his song, “All My Mistakes,” from a compilation album called The Art of Peace, which was a benefit project for Tibetan freedom. “All My Mistakes” completely floored me—I literally pulled over so I could listen more attentively! After the song was over, the DJ said the name of the song and singer. Of course, I went home and tried to find whatever info I could on “Tighter.” Eventually, I figured out who he was (and how to spell his name). Check out Poetry & Aeroplanes if you want to hear what he “usually” sounds like.

I knew nothing about Nico Muhly before finding this album. This is a shame, as he is a pretty prolific American composer; he studied at Juilliard and later with John Corligano. We can chalk my ignorance up to having my head buried in the sand.

Interestingly, the compositions are performed by the Holland Bach Society. The orchestra plays according to the same style that it would if were performing its usual repertoire of music from the high-Baroque; vibrato is scant, there is a strong basso continuo (“Time to Dry” is even a chaconne!), and many of the longer notes feature some nice messa di voce. The orchestra’s dry, stark playing fits perfectly behind Teitur’s similarly thin voice, and it suits Muhly’s compositions pretty well. I’ll admit that, despite my early-music-snob credentials, I would never have thought that a baroque ensemble would suit contemporary composition and a pop singer so well.

Highlights

All of the compositions, save “Sick of Fish” and “Dog and Frog,” include lyrics and vocals (which I can only assume are Teitur’s). In all, I think “Describe You,” “If You Wait a Little Longer,” “Cat Rescue,” and “Don’t I Know You From Somewhere” are the album’s strongest songs.

Describe You

“Describe You” is the first track on Confessions. The lyrics make no attempt at a rhyming scheme or meter, which makes the song an interesting mix of rhythms and lyrical phrasing. To me, “Describe You’s” lyrics are a beautiful description of how hard it can be to put physical beauty into words. Read for yourself:

I was trying to describe you to someone. You don’t look like anyone I’ve seen before. I couldn’t say, “She looks just like Jane Fonda;” you don’t look like Jane Fonda at all.

I finally ended up describing you as a movie I saw when I was a child. I think I was seven, or eight, or six. It was a movie about rural electrification. The movie, it was about farmers living in the country without electricity. They didn’t have any appliances and they had to use lanterns. They put poles across the countryside, strung wires over fields and pastures. There was an incredible heroic dimension. The movie showed electricity like a young Greek god, coming to take away forever dark ways of life.

I was trying to describe you to someone. You don’t look like anyone I have seen before. I couldn’t say, “She looks just like Jane Fonda.” I couldn’t say, “Her mouth is a little different;” you don’t look Jane Fonda at all.

I don’t pretend to be an expert in poetry or literary art, but I think that is pretty imaginative and beautiful. To me, the idea of describing the woman as a “young Greek god” that will forever eradicate darkness seems absolutely original. Maybe I am wrong. 1

If You Wait A Little Longer

“If You Wait A Little Longer” is delivered (almost) one word at a time. The voice is accompanied, in unison, by a lute until the entire first phrase is completed. Not only are the lyrics revealed one word at a time, but Teitur repeats each word as he builds the phrase. It’s difficult to explain, but here is a transcription of the first line.

If. If you. If you wait. If you wait a. If you wait a little. If you wait a little longer. If you wait a little longer than. If you wait a little longer than you. If you wait a little longer than you normally. If wait a little longer than you normally would.

From here, Teitur continues this pattern, but doesn’t repeat the “If you wait” stuff. He simply picks up where that phrase left off (though he slips two words in instead of one a few times): “The most. The most amazing. The most amazing thing may. The most amazing thing may appear.”

Once we have made it through the whole sentence, we (finally!) get to hear the whole thing without interruption. Now, the song finally feels like it has started; the lute plays a steady accompaniment—with occasional harpsichord entrances—while Teitur slowly sings a new melody. After a few times around this new section, the song returns to the original melody along with the unison lute accompaniment, though he doesn’t drag us through that admittedly laborious (though very effective) delivery. Then, right at the end, we hear the next sentence: “Most likely, nothing will happen.” It’s almost as if the entire song is one big joke. Teitur makes us “wait a little longer” (over three minutes!) before he finally tells us what will happen if we wait.

The sense of anticipation this created is palpable. The first time I heard this song, I kept trying to figure out what was coming next. Those two times he sings two words instead of one throws our expectations for a bit of a loop, which adds just enough variety to keep it from being too predictable. Though the whole thing might come across as a bit cliché, it is also really effective. “If you wait a little longer than you normally would, the most amazing thing may appear. Most likely, nothing will happen.” And, the song ends on an unresolved dominant chord, bringing the whole “wait” thing full circle; keep waiting, and you’ll see that this thing goes nowhere. Clever.

Cat Rescue

I have never really thought that a song about a cat stuck in a tree could be cool, but, I have also never even thought someone would write a song about a cat stuck in a tree. Basically, this guy’s cat is stuck up in a tree, and no one seems to be able to get it to come down. “The fire department is no use,” he says, “and the tree people aren’t answering or calling [him] back.”

At first, Teitur’s voice is accompanied by three sustained chords; the voice waits until the third chord before it enters, then the orchestra holds the third one while he sings. After the first few times around, the orchestra takes off on its own, playing some repetitive rhythmic/harmonic figures. There are some playful textures between the violins, recorder, and lute. The second time the instrumental textures return, the mood is more somber. At one point we hear a solo violin lingering after the others have stopped. Eventually, the three chords from earlier come back, but there is an echoing idea from the bass and lute where the voice used to be.

Don’t I Know You From Somewhere

“Don’t I Know You From Somewhere” is the closest thing Confessions has to a traditional pop “single.” It is almost radio-friendly, with a catchy melody and singer-songwriter-esque structure and accompaniment.1

As we are used to by now, this song doesn’t even try to have an obvious rhyming scheme or metrical pattern; it’s just a bunch of sentences given to us mater-of-factly. This one is some sort of exploration of what it might be like to be a sushi roll:

If I were a sushi roll traversing through a Japanese kitchen, I would be mostly fascinated by the people there; their welcoming arms and their strange voices, their fingers flying around, immersed in conversation. I would like ask them a question: “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

They would be too busy to answer to me, too hungry and happy with their lives, busy soaking up the atmosphere of this restaurant, with pictures of slinky fish on the wall, the sharp sound of knives, and the smell of soy and ginger still in their nostrils. I would be in awe of their breath. I could hardly wait to be lifted into their mouths and get broken in two, and lie there melting somewhere between the sadness of their tongue and teeth. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

An odd metaphor, to be sure, but really cool in my opinion. The narrator is so lonely and helpless that he’ll take any interaction with the world, even if that means all of those interesting people end up eating him. Weird, but kind of cool, I think. This is emphasized by the song simply ending without notice. Teitur says, “Don’t I know you from somewhere,” just like before, and the song just ends ... Maybe he got eaten! :)

Honorable Mentions

Though they are less great, “Small Spaces,” “I Smoke,” “Printer in the Morning,” and “Time to Dry” are all worth mentioning. “Small Spaces” is nothing but sustained chords with Teitur’s reverb-drenched voice singing about different rooms. “I Smoke” is a three-part composition with some surprises hiding in the accompaniment’s emphases. “Printer in the Morning” is a song about working in an office with an almost-continuous sixteenth-note part in the harpsichord; anytime someone could squeeze this line into a song is worth noting: “I love the smell of my printer in the morning. Forget ’bout coffee. Forget ’bout falling leaves or the smell of shampoo. It’s the smell of my printer in the morning that really makes my day.” As I mentioned earlier, “Time to Dry” is a textbook chaconne, as if straight out of Dido and Aeneas or Bach’s Musical Offering.

Conclusion

Confessions is certainly not most people’s “cup of tea.” It’s a weird combination of baroque-ish timbres and textures alongside Teitur’s untrained, thoroughly “poppy” voice. The lyrics are full-on prose, while being fully “poetic” in their descriptiveness. This is not an album to listen to in the car our on a run through the park, at least not the first few times around. So, find yourself forty-eight minutes that you can dedicate to listening on a nice-sounding sound system or through some good headphones and just listen.2 It’s a rewarding experience, and I think you’ll thank me one you’ve gone through it.

9.5/10

1. It turns out that this text is very closely based on a short story by Richard Brautigan. Actually, it’s almost an exact quote, so “based on” is the wrong word to use. Don’t worry: he got compositional credit. ↩︎

2. There is even a music video! ↩︎

3. Isn’t it kind of sad that this is an admonition that I feel I have to make. I wish we (myself) would “just listen” a lot more. ↩︎

On the 50th Anniversary of Pet Sounds

Pet Sounds, what I would consider one of the greatest and most important albums ever released, turned fifty years old on Monday. For me, this is a pretty monumental moment. Never mind the fact that I love the album, but Pet Sounds is what convinced me that Brian Wilson was worth studying, which then led me on a six-year-long writing/research project. Also, perhaps not coincidentally, Monday was also the one-year anniversary of my doctoral commencement ceremony.

What else is there to say about Pet Sounds that hasn’t already been beaten into the ground? A lot has been written about how different it is not only from the rest of the Beach Boys’ œuvere, but how different it is from virtually everything its contemporary.

For sure, Pet Sounds certainly is different from most other “rock-n-roll” from the mid-sixties. Brian Wilson has spoken at length about his admiration for Phil Spector, and the fact that “Be My Baby” is his favorite song. Orchestrationaly, Pet Sounds has more in common with the Ronettes and the Crystals than with Bob Dylan or the Beatles, as he was trying to emulate Spector whenever possible. (And most people agree, he “out-Spectored,” Spector)

As he tells it, Brian Wilson heard the Beatles’ Rubber Soul sometime in early-1966 and was blown away by what he heard. Instead of a collection of pop songs thrown together to make a 40-minute LP, Rubber Soul felt to him like a suite, a series of songs that simply “belonged together.” The word he often used to describe the album was that it was “spiritual,” which (I think) was his way of trying to describe the underlying connectedness of Rubber Soul’s songs. After hearing the album, the story goes, Brian was determined to do something the same ... but better.

So far, I think all of that commentary is fine. But, here is where a lot of people get Pet Sounds wrong, in my opinion. While I don’t think it is necessarily wrong to call Pet Sounds a “concept album” (though I don’t like all of the baggage that term carries), too many people think the album is a “concept album” because of some supposed narrative that is stretched across the album—and this, of course, is evidence of Brian Wilson’s “genius.” This is wrong for three reasons:

1. The narrative folks say is there just isn’t. As I see it, I find some elements of a narrative arc, but it falls apart in too many places in the middle for it to be coherent in any way. If we are insistent on finding lyrical cohesion across Pet Sounds we should consider it as a song cycle revolving—quite loosely in some places (e.g. Sloop John B)—around the topic of love; anything more forces the album into a mold where it simply doesn’t fit.
2. The lyrics aren’t Brian Wilson’s, which means that, were there an overarching narrative plan—a narrative concept, if you will—Brian Wilson doesn’t deserve credit for it; Tony Asher does.
3. Brian has refuted the idea that Pet Sounds was a narrative concept album. Instead, he has called it a production concept album. Given the way the album sounds, and Brian’s fascination with Phil Spector, this makes a lot more sense. This is also what Brian found so inspiring in Rubber Soul: the “spiritual” qualities of the album.

When listening to Pet Sounds, you really need to let the sound of the album get inside of you. The orchestrations—odd combinations of instruments playing in unison and octaves juxtaposed with different, equally odd, groups playing beautiful countermelodies—are what make Pet Sounds great. That is what Brian Wilson was trying to do. Yes, some of the songs are great—God only knows what a beautiful song “God Only Knows” is—but it is the sound of the album that is the point.

Highlights

First, the tympani hits as an intro. Not many (if any) other pop-music arrangers would go there. Second, listen to the English horn doubling the melody. Third, the prepared piano that connects the first two phrases is just about perfect. The flute countermelodies are also a perfect complement.

Notice the way the castanets echo in tempo and the way the slide guitar enters and exits so smoothly. And then there is that English horn again ...

It is hard to ignore how gorgeously Brian Wilson doubles the guitar with a glockenspiel. I love how active the bass line is (which is being doubled by both electric and upright basses). I also love how the bari sax enters at the end of the phrase and then continues to pulse on each beat, leaving the basses to continue dancing above it.

This one was actually released as a Brian Wilson solo track, but then included on the album. As such, there are no vocal harmonies—which, of course, is kind of weird for a Beach Boys song. The echo on the bongo (struck with a mallet) is so central to the piece, it practically defines it. I also find the intro interesting because he sets up what feels like a 4/4 groove, with the bongo hit on the “and” of beat three, but then the harpsichord enters in what would then be a slightly-late “and” of two in the next bar. Bizarre.

Of course, it would silly to ignore Brian Wilson’s great gift at melodic writing, his pseudo-contrapuntal textures most specifically. I think that the endings of both “You Still Believe In Me” and “God Only Knows” are some of the best examples of this. (And then there is that bicycle horn at the end of “You Still Believe In Me” ... )

Conclusion

Please, do me a favor, and really listen to Pet Sounds, all the way through, with headphones (and no distractions). I think you will agree, at the end, that this was time well spent.

If you are crazy, you could read my 291-page, in-depth analysis of Brian’s music from just after this period.

Album Review: No Pier Pressure by Brian Wilson

So, Brian Wilson. The person with whom I was obsessed, on and off, for about six years. He just turned 73. He also released an album, his eleventh as a solo artist, back in April.

Given my personal investment in Brian Wilson, I want to love No Pier Pressure (2015, Capitol). I thought That Lucky Old Sun was near perfect, and The Beach Boys’ That’s Why God Made the Radio was surprisingly good. But, try as I might, I just don’t have a lot of praise for Brian’s newest release. The two biggest things that bothered me were the album’s overuse of guest performers and its unimaginative orchestrations.

Cameo Appearances

I know that I might be in the minority on this one, but, I really don’t like it when singers/bands fill their albums with various guest appearances. I don’t mind it when so-and-so shows up on one song, but I certainly do mind when nearly every song features someone else (e.g. nearly every hip-hop album that gets released anymore). Mostly, I think it is annoying that these cameos are there for no reason at all, save the cross-promotional value. If the cameo is for a specific reason—say, Eric Clapton in “While My Guitar Gently Weeps”—I find it less annoying. But, when John Mayer had Taylor Swift sing backing vocals on “Half of My Heart,” it was so ridiculously obvious what he (or his label) was after. (Ditto for Vanessa Carlton’s after-the-fact appearance on Counting Crows’ cover of “Big Yellow Taxi.”) So, I was disappointed when I saw that Brian Wilson’s new album had a bunch of cameos. Ten of No Pier Pressure’s tracks include guest performers. To be fair, people like David Marks, Blondie Chaplin, and (especially) Al Jardine, should maybe be given a pass as “guests;” former bandmates are maybe not really “guests” in the purest sense of the word. But, No Pier Pressure includes vocals by Sebu, Zooey Deschanel (and guitar from M. Ward, I assume), Pete Hollens, Kacey Musgraves, and Nate Reuss (of fun.), and trumpet by Mark Isham. In fact, the album’s producer (Joe Thomas) even said that he and Wilson “wanted (their) kids to think (they) were cool.” Call me crazy, but I don’t think that someone like Brian Wilson should feel (or be made to feel) like he has anything to prove in terms of "coolness."

Orchestration

Of all of the laud Brian Wilson has received throughout his career, perhaps none is more deserved than the many testimonies of his orchestrational gifts. Despite all of the talk about Pet Sounds’ supposed narrative concept and all that, it is Brian’s orchestrations that make Pet Sounds the masterpiece that it is. So, why, why, why does No Pier Pressure rely so much on synths? “Runaway Dancer” is probably the tackiest example, though “Half Moon Bay” and “Don’t Worry” aren’t much better. Brian’s timbral vocabulary is where his genius truly lies, but No Pier Pressure doesn’t deliver. Among other things, the orchestrations are what made That Lucky Old Sun so great. And, while they came across as a bit too “modern,” the orchestrations on That’s Why God Made the Radio helped tie that album to Brian (and the Beach Boys’) previous (and best) material. Too put it a little too harshly, the orchestrations on No Pier Pressure do a better job of connecting Brian Wilson to “Kokomo” than they do to “Sloop John B.” (and Brian had nothing to do with “Kokomo”).

Conclusion

As I said earlier, I really want to love this album. I want No Pier Pressure to be something like a victory lap for one of America’s great musical legends, but it isn’t. If anything, no Pier Pressure comes across as a has-been trying desperately (or at least his label trying desperately) to be an “is-now” instead. But, the fact of the matter is that in trying to not sound like a has-been is usually the final stage of entering that status.

My wife and I saw Brian Wilson play at Humphrey’s back in June. The tickets were steep but, hey, it’s not everyday that the topic of your doctoral dissertation plays a concert in the city where you live. Anyway, this concert was part of Brian’s No Pier Pressure tour, but he only played two songs from the album. I think that is indicative of what the album actually is; it is not really a Brian Wilson album, but something compiled and watered down by well-meaning record execs and producers.

If I had to pick one song from the album that I thought came closest to what I wish this album sounded like, it would be “The Right Time.” This song features Al Jardine and David Marks (two former Beach Boys), and has just the right amount of nostalgia without getting sappy. But, the fact that this one song is the album’s strong point means that the rest of the album is simply not very good.

4/10