Beck
Mellow Gold

THE REVIEW

The debut of Beck in 1994 was a hard blow to absorb, even for a fertile and heterogeneous period like a decade ago. The arrival on the American market of this Swedish jack-of-all-trades left the already disoriented listeners of the time enchanted, who, adrift between the last remnants of grunge and the new forays of punk-revival, emo, britpop, trip-hop, and much more, didn't know which direction to turn their ears. Thus "Mellow Gold" arrived out of nowhere, a disturbing artfully muddled smoothie between past and present like the strange creature that animates the hallucinatory and almost luciferian cover. A mix between a robot equipped with everything, including a penis, and an ancient unicorn animal skull. Behind it, a bewildered blonde with aviator glasses and an air of being misunderstood. Instead, it will be a beautiful discovery to unwrap the magical, distorted, restless yet calm world, into which we are dragged in slow motion.

"Loser" already sounds like a manifesto, the apathetic joy of being losers and being proud of it. A neo-folk background tinged with electronics, bizarre and humorous effects accompany the new celebration of the geek who becomes "cool," despite Moretti and Penthotal. This aura of mutant blues will wander throughout the entire album, aided by a refined succession of furious electro-metal sorties ("Soul Suckin Jerk") with gospel undertones, pseudo-existential folk-beat ("Truckdrivin Neighbors Downstairs"), ballads from cotton plantations but set in the near future ("Whiskeyclone, Hotel City 1997"), death-industrial lo-fi ("Mutherfuker"), and much, much more. The gentle singing induces us to accompany without fear on the passenger side of this journey that seems more like a parodic homage to America, what it represents, from Robert Johnson to Chuck Berry, Motown, and the Byrds, up to the Beastie Boys and the most obsessive, post-modern hip-hop. Yes, because Beck begins with this first work his journey as a bizarre post-rock minstrel, the bard who starts from everything to reach the unknown, a new musical approach that will then become the predominant trend of the new millennium. The encyclopedic tendency to feel on top of a mountain of records, stories, myths, legends, meteors, and milestones. The awareness of the power of music, its effects, the ability to spread a melody across continents, the possibility of being understood by everyone speaking a Babel-like language. What Beck was doing will then become what we are now, a continuous retrieval from the past, a race to who composes the most colorful and best-fitting puzzle, blending genres with many confusing catchphrases. Beck doesn't need categorizations, he's a step ahead of the others just because he adores what he does, without significant strategies, just crazy love and dependence on art. Once the Bentley speeds up and our protagonist goes wild, we initially become fearful... have we embarked on the right journey? Indeed, the album, after making us minimally accustomed to its strange attire, opens immediately and showcases its best part. Curses, love paranoia, poetry about sunsets, about darkness, the headlights off in the night of Mogolian memory, the stink of feet and witticisms. Sweetness. That infinite bitter sweetness of "Steal My Body Home," a prayer, a plea, the "There Is A Light That Never Goes Out" of the '90s. Eyes lost in the mirror, someone spills out the acoustic tail with strings of "Blackhole." We are urged to wake up, but to do it slowly, like in a voodoo ritual that acts more on the psychological than the physical side. Beck's voice chews words mumbling true feelings, we feel full, our eyes moist. In this crystalline enchantment, after a final spin inside a rollercoaster-shaped dishwasher, we return in front of our house, and we are moved.