Danny Cohen
Dannyland

A world apart, that of Danny.
It would be useful to start by banning all prejudice. Difficult, but not impossible, to forget the promo of testimonials from various artists (people like Tom Waits and Mr. E, Micheal Stipe, and Lou Reed). Indeed, the story of this character above and below the lines (depending on moods and fortunes) begins way back in time. We are at the end of the Sixties. A young boozer picks up the guitar and churns out absurd and bizarre records (Disco Diarrhea); he racks up miles and tours America like a new Zappa, more folk but no less obsessed. Successes zero, as far as I know. Yet he earns respect, honor, and something to drink. Then silence, either due to the shortsightedness of the record industry, liver or women problems. Or (not to be excluded, knowing the type of man) out of boredom. The fact is that the years of waiting become many (16?). It then happens that Waits moves to Anti and a few years later he brings along two friends above all. One is Danny.

So, good Cohen (by the way... what a nice surname!) gets to work and pulls out of the hat a whole world of deformed, bastard, and rather rogue rabbits... Then he gathers good musicians, excellent drinkers, and a certain John LaPado. The record is ready. I speak to you about it simply, what comes. The first track is a paradigm of intentions (The Devil and Danny Cohen). Schizoid in having two different and dissonant melodies coexist within the same piece with perfectly harmonious results. A magician, as we were saying. We move on, and it seems like a sick dream with a hint of ghosts and Daniel Johnston. Then, Motel Sex, telling us of a bastardized and tipsy Neil Young. You know, a diluted Morphine-like base and a voice like a medium redhead? It seems you can hear the black tobacco-flavored breath. Almost a ballad, a dark tango, the fourth piece is about death.

El Niño, El Niño and we are in the presence of his majesty Tom Waits. That of the Swordfishtrombones era. Accordion and viola carpet. Piercing sadness. Dazzling. It seems, despite the title, like a Kurt Weill opera transvested/masked as Ute Lemper at 78 RPM. With Still Alive Danny pays homage to Lennon (another of his obsessions), and the piece hangs between wasted Beatles and a slowed and off-key One (U2). Perhaps a personal Let it be, a sincere act of love. It’s no coincidence that it fades on unmistakable notes. Imagine.
Lucy Lucifer reeks of shit and the psychedelia of a 90-year-old Barrett, trembling and naive. The guitar seems to be set up with barbed wire strings. A small and necessary mention for Sweltering, a summary for Casio and little organ plus a newly cloned Ribot.

Now, if he had made it an album of eight/9 tracks, it would have undoubtedly been the best work of 2004. As is, it appears weighed down by minutes that could very well have been B-sides of some single, simply if some single had been scheduled (ehhh). In any case, this is a great album. And I swear on your women that you can touch the Magic in the last 6 seconds of Alamo Line. I'll refund the disappointed.