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Rating: The creative workshop of Beck Hansen knows no limits in his sonic deconstructions, not even after the wonderful sui generis mess of 'Odelay'.
The disordered miniatures of previous works find a more studied and heartfelt dimension in this fifth chapter, characterized by typical Beckian insights suspended on an unusual and decidedly fascinating singer-songwriter style, now played on slow harmonic digressions of broad emotional scope. Songs in slight "mutation" in their essence, arranged with the help of the infallible Nigel Godrich who allows greater melodic readability in the artist's quirks, anticipating the melancholic and poetic vein that would lead to the artistic success of 'Sea Change'.
The taste for freely modulating different styles is well present throughout the 13 tracks of Mutations: a wah-wah guitar in the awkward Cold Brains, the inserts of the sitar in the psychedelic garden of Nobody's Fault but My Own, the Syd Barrett-like temptations in the fluttering Lazy Flies, the romantic glimmers of We Live Again, the Brazilian extravagance of Tropicalia, the electro-acoustic inserts in Bottle of Blues, the retro atmospheres of O Maria and other (un)veiled delights like the air gathered around the arpeggiated sunsets of Dead Melodies and Sing It Again; above all, the sweetness of Static stands out, nostalgic and captivating at the same time, a pop ballad that immediately strikes with its great interpretative effectiveness.
But the 3 minutes of Canceled Check have an incredible instrumental setup: on a sly melody follow a vaudeville piano, a country guitar, a folk harmonica, an orchestral trumpet, which suddenly stop in the last minute when unpredictable noises and various disturbances arise.
Another memorable episode is the post-lysergic delirium of Diamond Bollocks, 6 minutes totally detached from the context to upend the listener's expectations: on the basis of a classical keyboard, a furious rhythm section emerges followed by disorienting ideas, including bird chirping (could it be a tribute to Pink Floyd?) and a sinisterly progressive finale. It seems the ideal conclusion to the album, but Beck never ceases to amaze; with the following Runners Dial Zero he takes us into claustrophobic, icy, and apocalyptic settings, strong with a crumbling sound, dark piano, and cynical voice.
As early as Mutations, Beck has demonstrated knowing how to go beyond his ability to repaint genres, if there is an album that acts as a watershed between the first and second careers of our artist, it is certainly this one. As refined as it is enjoyable.
Tracklist Lyrics and Videos
01 Cold Brains (03:42)
Cold Brains,
Unmoved,
Untouched,
Unglued
Alone at last
no thoughts,
no mind
to rot
behind
a trail of disasters
a final the curse
abandoned hearse
we ride disowned
corroded to the bone
the fields of green
are bent, obscene
i lay upon the gravel
a worm of hope
a hangman's rope
pulls me one way or the other
a final curse
abandoned hearse
we write this song
corroded to the bone
a bird of song
is heard no longer
in the evacuated heavens
the drain is drawn
and drained and gone
and on and on, it doesn't matter
a final the curse
abandoned hearst
we rock the salt
corroded to the bone
02 Nobody's Fault but My Own (05:02)
treated you like a rusty blade
a throwaway from an open grave
cut you loose from a chain gang and let you go
and on the day you said it's true
some love holds, some gets used
tried to tell you i never knew
it could be so sweet
who could ever be so cruel,
blame the devil for the things you do
its such a selfish way to lose
the way you lose these wasted Blues these wasted Blues
tell me that it's nobody's fault
nobody's fault
but my own
that it's nobody's fault
nobody's fault
but my own
when the moon is a counterfeit
better find the one that fits
better find the one that lights
the way for you
when the road is full of nails,
garbage pails and darkened jails
and their tongues are full of heartless tales
that drain on you
who would ever notice you
you fade into a shaded room
it's such a selfish way to lose
the way you lose these wasted blues, these wasted blues
tell me that it's nobody's fault
nobody's fault
but my own
tell me that it's nobody's fault
nobody's fault
but my own tell me that it's nobody's fault
nobody's fault
but my own tell me that it's nobody's fault
nobody's fault
but my own
tell me that it's nobody's fault
nobody's fault
but my own
tell me that it's nobody's fault
nobody's fault
but my own...
03 Lazy Flies (03:43)
Lazy flies all hovering above
The magistrate
He puts on his gloves
And he looks to the clouds
All pink and disheveled
There must be some blueprint
Some creed of the devil
Inscribed in our minds
A hideous game
Vanishes in the air
The vanity of slaves
Who wants to be there
To sweep the debris
To harness dead horses
To ride in the sun
A life of confessions
Written in the dust
Out in the mangroves
The mynah birds cry
In the shadows of sulphur
The trawlers drift by
They're chewing dried meat
In a house of disrepute
The dust of opiates
And syphilis patients
On brochure vacations
Fear has a glare
That traps you like searchlights
The puritans stare
Their souls are fluoresecent
The skin of a robot
Vibrates with pleasure
Matrons and gigolos
Carouse in the parlor
Their hand-grenade eyes
Invalid and blind
A hideous game
Vanishes in the air
The vanity of slaves
Who wants to be there
To sweep the debris
To harness dead horses
To ride in the sun
A life of confessions
Written in the dust
04 Canceled Check (03:14)
I hate to do this
But you're a pain in the neck
I thought you knew this
You're handing me a canceled check
You're so helpless
Your girlfriends think you're a saint
I'll give you a quarter
I'll keep my judgements to myself
And I get caught up in the moonlight
Reaching out for a rotten egg
I don't want to beg
It's crystal clear your time is nearly gone
Count your blessings
And do the things that you should
O the has-beens
Never had it so good
Stormy weather
The kids are making a racket
In the wilderness
The wild lives are so mild
And I get caught up in the moonlight
Reaching out for a rotten egg
I don't want to beg
It's crystal clear your time is nearly gone
And I get caught up in the moonlight
Reaching out for a rotten egg
I don't want to beg
It's crystal clear your time is nearly gone
05 We Live Again (03:03)
These withered hands have dug for a dream
Sifted through sand and leftover nightmares
Over the hill, a desolate wind
Turns shit to gold and blows my soul crazy
The end
O the end
We live again
O i grow weary of the end
O hungry days in the footsteps of fools
Gazing alone through sex-painted windows
Dredging the night, drunk libertines
Stink like colognes from the newfangled wasteland
The end
O the end
We live again
O I grow weary of the end
Love is a plague in a mix-match parade
Where the castaways look so deranged
When will the children learn to let their wildernesses burn
And love will be new never cold and vacant
These withered hands have dug for a dream
Sifted through sand and leftover nightmares
The end
Of the end
We live again
O I grow weary of the end
06 Tropicalia (03:20)
oh when they beat
upon a broken guitar
and on the streets
they reek of tropical charms
the embassies lie in hideous shards
where tourists snore and decay
when they dance in a reptile blaze
you wear a mask
an equatorial haze
into the past
a colonial maze
where there's no more confetti to throw
you wouldn't know what to say to yourself
love is a poverty you couldn't sell
misery waiting in vague hotels
to be evicted
you're out of luck
you're singing funeral songs
to the studs
they're anabolic and bronze
they seem to strut
in their millennial fogs
'til they fall down and deflate
you wouldn't know what to say to yourself
love is a poverty you couldn't sell
misery waiting in vague hotels
to be evicted
oh and now you've had your fun
under an air-conditioned sun
it's burned into your eyes
leaves you plain and left behind
oh see them eyes and fall
into the jaws of a pestilent love
you wouldn't know what to say to yourself
love is a poverty you couldn't sell
misery waiting in vague hotels
to be a victim
09 O Maria (04:00)
There was no one nothing to see
The night is useless and so are we
Cos everybody knows
The fabric of folly is fallen apart at the seams
And I've been lookin' for a good time
But the pleasures are seldom and few
There's no whiskey there's no wine
Just the concrete and a worried mind
Cos everone knows death creeps in slow
Til you feel safe in his arms
And I've been lookin' for a new friend
And I don't care if he's decrepit and grey
O maria haven't you known
Days so careless
All on your own
Everybody knows the circus is closed
And the animals have gone wild
And I've been lookin' for my shadow
But this place is so bright and so clean
There was no one nothing to see
The night is useless and so are we
Cos everybody knows
The fabric of folly is fallen apart at the seams
And I've been lookin' for a good time
But the pleasures are seldom and few
11 Static (04:19)
it's so easy to laugh at yourself
when all those jokes have already been written
seems like another vain attempt
to let yourself fall out of the oven
holy mountains
they look so tired
and it's a perfect day
to lock yourself inside
who you foolin' if the fools are right
it's the same thing but it's almost as different
hard to tell when it pacifies your mind
leaves you stranded like a broken engine
lazy desert looks so mangled
let me drown in a convalescent bliss
get up from your bed of rest
it's been a long time since you've lived
but the static in your mind
leaves you hollow and unkid
with a shock electric wave
turns you on
you've been flunked out of the devil's house
delinquint hygienes are so abrasive
and some distortion that's never been known
and on the treadmill you'll be running forever
holy mountains
they look so tired
and it's a perfect day
to lock yourself inside
12 Electric Music and the Summer People (03:35)
Out on the highway,
I’m doing it my way
Zig-zag patients,
Vibrating the ancients
Handin’ out money,
The flies makin’ honey
Beaches aplenty,
The pigs on the levee...
Lets don’t be, like everyone else
With the one trip rooms,
And the halfway house
Big black drums,
Beating the night,
Running away... thats what I like!
Seasons are turnin’,
Villages burnin’,
Convalescents
Open their presents
Wanderin’ children
Ready and willin’...
Beggars and lightweights
Harness the highways
Lets don’t be, like everyone else
With the one trip rooms,
And the halfway house
Big black drums,
Beating the night,
Running away... thats what I like!
Abandoned coal mine,
We’ll have a good time
Red tape rivals,
Recycling bibles
Lets don’t be, like everyone else
With the one trip rooms,
And the halfway house
Big black drums,
Beating the night,
Running away... thats what I like!
13 Diamond Bollocks (06:02)
*hidden track on Mutations*
Looking back at some dead world that looks so new,
Offices and fountains that they named for you,
Dazzlements of accidents rejoice their doom,
Hari-karis spinning round the golden looms.
Girl you dream infectious from a nauseous heart,
Choice cut meats from derelict boulevards.
Hear that lonesome whistle blow,
No direction to be known,
In a senile revelry.
A tearful gaze turns away,
Emoting cold and grey,
scentec eunuchs clothe our wretchedness.
Looking back at some dead world that looks so new,
Offices and fountains that they named for you,
So ungrateful to the who's and what's-his-face,
Terrorist confections look so out of place.
Looking back at some dead world that looks so new..........(5x)
14 Runners Dial Zero (04:03)
By the dried up stream
We slit our throats and dreamed
When the building's burned
Was there some concern
Mother laid in bed
What was it she said?
Gather all your worldly jewels
And scatter them like fools
Don't you make a fuss
Days so perilous
When day is done we'll ride
Who cares what we find
Another misspent night
We thought we got it right
The driver lost a wheel
The ice turned into steel
They shivered like refugees
Way down on our knees
By the dried up stream
We slit our throats and dreamed
When the building's burned
Was there some concerned
Mother laid in bed
What was it she said?
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By C.H.A.R.L.I.E Nokia
He took this wreck and recorded it with a series of damaged tapes playing underneath and the neighbor’s TV blasting at full volume.
Another brilliant work was handed, meaning he made a damn crappy folk record, the kind that if Alex Britti had made it, we would have stoned him in public.
