I approached this "The Strange Names" with the awareness that I can't quite digest alternative rock. I have nothing against sonic experimentation, on the contrary, but, mistakenly, some time ago I still associated this category (alt-rock) with post-rock, which I really cannot digest. I pleasantly discovered that Okkervil River are light-years away from it. Their music is usually crepuscular, vaguely melancholic... but nothing to do with the exasperating post-rock minimalism.
In my opinion, this latest work is their best. The previous, "Black Sheep Boy", although almost unanimously considered a little gem in their discography, I found excessively dark and redundant; if not in the music, at least in the existential condition that triggered it.
In "The Strange Names," however, everything shines with a freshness and immediacy that has the notable merit of not succumbing to banality. The term alt-rock indeed feels inadequate. The music played here, although it could be considered indie, is fundamentally a well-crafted rock'n'roll, spiced up with a piano and a first-rate orchestral setup. Moreover, here the American band, entrusting the production to Brian Beattie (who does his dirty yet honest work at the console), gains in sound quality, decidedly superior to the standard.
However, what I think characterizes the album the most (and all of Okkervil River) is the histrionic and highly expressive voice of their leader. While it's true that the musical landscape might offer more powerful or wider ranged tones, Will Robinson Sheff possesses an emotional charge that he manages to adapt and perfectly shape according to the musical style of each track. His vein of self-irony is also clearly present everywhere (the eighth track is titled "Title track"), and I believe this "melancholic irony" contributes to the success of his interpretations.
Describing the tracks from a musical point of view is not simple: I can say that, among semi-acoustic ballads (but the trumpets and the rest occasionally resurface) and old-fashioned nursery rhymes ("Savannah Smiles"), interrupted by rousing and wonderfully fitting rhythms, you find yourself navigating a sound that is sunny yet serious, carefree yet incredibly deep (there are many references in the lyrics to classical culture and literature). The album is therefore worthwhile, and very much so. Among the many bands in the alternative scene (or considered as such), Okkervil River is one of those few that do not disappoint. They can be considered the flagbearers of a clear yet sometimes raw sound, incisive in terms of expression, nocturnal, and perhaps even schematic, but never sterile.
Tracklist Lyrics and Videos
02 Unless It's Kicks (04:39)
What gives this mess some grace unless it's kicks, man - unless it's fictions, unless it's sweat or it's songs? What hits against this chest unless it's a sick man's hand, from some midlevel band? He's been driving too long on a dark windless night, with the stereo on, with the towns flying by and the ground getting soft.
And a sound in the sky, coming down from above, it surrounds you and sighs and is whispering of what pulls your body down, and that is quicksand. So climb out quick, hand over hand, before your mouth's all filled up. What picks you up from down unless it's tricks, man? When I've been fixed I am convinced that I will not get so broke up again.
And on a seven day high, that heavenly song punches right through my mind and just hums through my blood. And I know it's a lie, but I'll still give my love. Hey, my heart's on the line for your hands to pluck off.
What gives this mess some grace unless it's fiction - unless it's licks, man, unless it's lies or it's love? What breaks this heart the most is the ghost of some rock and roll fan, floating up from the stands with her heart opened up. And I want to tell her, "Your love isn't lost," and say "my heart is still crossed!" I want to scream, "hey, you're so wonderful! What a dream in the dark - about working so hard, about growing so stoned, trying not to turn off, trying not to believe in that lie all on your own."
09 John Allyn Smith Sails (04:33)
By the second verse, dear friends,
my head will burst and my life will end,
so I'd like to start this one off by saying "live! and love!"
I was young and at home in bed,
hanging on the words some poem said in '31;
I was impressionable. I was upsettable.
I tried to make my breathing stop
or my heart beat slow,
so when my mom and John came in I would be cold.
From a bridge on Washington Avenue,
the year of 1972 broke my bones and skull,
and it was memorable.
It was half a second in;
I was half-way down
do you think I wanted to turn back around and teach a class
where you kiss the ass that I've exposed to you?
And at the funeral, the University
cried at three poems they'd present in place of a broken me.
I was breaking in a case of suds
at the Brass Rail, a fall-down drunk
with his tongue torn out
and his balls removed.
And I knew that my last lines were gone,
while, stupidly, I lingered on.
Oh, but wise men know
when it's time to go,
and so I should too.
And so I fly into the brightest winter sun
of this frozen town.
I'm stripped down to move on,
my friends: I'm gone.
I hear my father fall,
and I hear my mother call,
and I hear the others all whispering, come home.
I'm sorry to go.
I loved you all so,
but this is the worst trip I've ever been on.
So hoist up the John B. sail.
See how the main sail sets.
I'm full in my heart and my head
and I want to go home,
with a book in my hand,
in the way I had planned.
(This is the worst trip, I've ever been on.)
I feel so broke up, I want to go home.
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