John Cale
Mercy

JOHN CALE - “MERCY” (2023, DOUBLE SIX)

“Starting off well!” one might say, when an almost hip-hop opening introduces us to the new dark universe of the Old Master, John Cale. When, a few seconds later, from who knows where, the gallows-like voice of the artist arrives, we are reassured, in an affectionate surge of recognition and identification: it's him. The track that gives the title to the entire album has a sort of Petronian mission: to invite us to a banquet with chiaroscuro colors, where the premises fade into caves with crumbling walls and few lights dart from below to above, disorienting us. A post-punk-post-rock-post-everything Satyricon. It takes a certain robust familiarity with Our Man to enter without too much fear into the den of this dark, fascinating work. The retrograde pulsing of an electronic drum measures the a-spatial dimension of “Mercy” and we have no choice but to dive into the sequel.

“Marilyn Monroe’s legs” is an electronic carpet on which, stunned, we slide, leaving behind the antechamber of Cale's creation; here intermittent spies, “bips” and oscillations proceed in the sadistic task of making us lose our way; the voice comes from an indeterminate elsewhere, muffled, distorted, also floating like a sonic neon. In the end, an electronic ballad scraped in sulphur, from which notes tentatively drip like stalactites over a restless, interrupted, fragmentary rhythm.

Bells ring out
The snow falls
The choir is finishing it's song

Your footsteps on the stairs
Meet at the River House
To say goodbye
To say goodbye (bye)

“Noise of you” takes on a more traditional connotation, but to be forgiven, John Cale writes an eloquent and touching text; the structure is also circular, vaguely hypnotic, suitable for the pulsing of the drum-machine; the electronic sounds with which the track slowly comes to an end are all too appealing.

Let's move on to the next station: “Story of blood.” A piano in the very early Tom Waits manner gives us its welcome, almost hesitating, as if on the verge of sending us away, of inducing us to run to the next groove; instead, percussion, echoes and electronic devilries drag Cale's voice into an incredibly sensual snake dance; it streaks before us, seduces and repels, intoxicates and frightens: there's even room for a non-decorative, but coherent and disturbing chorus. So far perhaps the most convincing magic of the album. The temptation to seek references to other bands, to other tracks is strong, but in the progressive listening one is dissuaded by an inconsistent and annihilating current of originality and, together, of disguised citationism.

“Time stands still” boasts the pop arrogance of any Art of Noise; but then there is the voice: John Cale is his voice; the mournful cadence of his odd and uneven melodic singing forces the listener to reverse and then accelerate, to surrender once more.

The roses in the garden are growing in the rain
Competing with the poppy for the sun
It's Christmas in the wilderness, spring time in Japan
Monsoons happening everywhere, even in your backyard

“Moonstruck” (Nico’s song) opens with these lines: Moonstruck, moonstruck/ Moonstruck, moonstruck/You're a moonstruck junkie lady, staring at your feet…”. The greatness of this artist, still underestimated, fully rises and almost moves us; among the words and chopped pauses, it almost seems as if the spirit of Nico floats in between fingers, between table legs and exits through the window, leaving behind a bright and sweet trail. Here is a masterpiece, and we even feel the magical wave of the viola leaving an intangible sweetness between the teeth.

“Everlasting days” disrupts expectations through a female song soon joined in an unpredictable duet by John Cale's voice; we follow the indolence of the entire composition, between electro-pop insights and some experimental echoes, which the artist rarely relinquishes. The entire operation, in its oddity, manages to engage and intrigue; in the finale, a third song joins the two dominant voices, taking us back to the twilight circle with which we began the journey.

“Night crawling” has a perfect cinematic timing: images float before our eyes, now accustomed to chiaroscuro: Orpheus-Cale takes us by the hand and offers himself as a skater on an unlikely track where omnipresent echoes contribute to an estrangement one gladly yields to.

From the very first bars of “Not the end of the world” we are inclined to shout, once more, at a masterpiece; we find a more recognizable and familiar Cale, while a wonderful rhythmic carpet cyclically repeats its phrases, inside a whirlpool of sounds and effects: a beautiful vortex to get lost in. The structure could vaguely remind one of something from Portishead, but it is simply a suggestion: here it is purely John Cale.

“The legal status of ice” confirms the impression that, despite the album cover soaked in reds and blacks, the inspiring chromatic texture is that of the infinite declinations of ice-white; the coldness, of course, has nothing distant or emotionally glacial; rather, the track is sustained by a suspended, tribal, liturgical aura.

The album concludes with two small jewels set in the diadem: “I know you’re happy” and “Out your window”. The first of the two is more current and predictable, a 4/4 without great insights but always very enjoyable and severe, according to Cale's style. “Out your window”, on the other hand, is part of the imaginary trio of masterpieces of the entire album: the insistent piano of the incipit opens and closes the curtain on a wonderfully recognizable, poignant, sorrowful, melancholic song: a classic.

The entire effort of John Cale, at the age of eighty-one, reveals a stature well beyond the peaks that the great rock usually gets us used to: here the songwriting aspect blends with musical research, daring, lyricism, giving back to us a work that reconciles with the music produced in these years. And then the lyrics: important, intense, without borders. Not just an old friend: but a true artist who, despite his gruff personality, manages to build a perhaps salvific path even with the rough sweetness of his art.