Papa M
Whatever, Mortal

A Northwest Passage for Pajo's Post-Folk

The first impression one gets of David Pajo is that of a shy, discreet, seemingly inconsequential guy. Yet, in his little corner, he works. With the Slint. Then with the Tortoise. Sometimes he shows up with Stereolab. Always there, in that corner, ready to change the history of American music. If not change, at least give it a notable twist. Also with his monikers: M Is The Thirteenth Letter, M, Papa-M, Aerial-M. And yet with Bonnie "Prince" Billy, another guy who's also keen on changing his name, even more so! Then with the Zwan, Billy Corgan's unsuccessful (in outcomes, not in intentions) creation. I still remember David Pajo in concert with the band in Milan, hidden behind an amplifier doing his simple work bent over the guitar, earning his bread, preferring to leave the stage to Zucca and Sweeney.
The first impression one gets of David Pajo is that of a guy who stands apart at parties, and he probably is. He only speaks to guests who are willing to listen, preferring to leave the floor to more flamboyant personalities. David Pajo, one of those people with whom it's surprisingly pleasant to talk. Sharp, interesting, never snobbish. If he decides to give the underground scene of the '90s a jolt, he does it without making a fuss. And he demonstrates it by producing with his Papa M the lo-fi, acoustic, extremely enjoyable album. Which, upon closer look, is not only enjoyable but enlightening, brilliant. Which, upon closer listen, is not only acoustic but much more.

While "Over Jordan", "Sorrow Reigns Blue", and "Roses In The Snow" are lucid and delicate, "Krusty" (like the clown?) is built on arpeggios and slightly noise wanderings, and "Many Splendored Things" closely resembles "He Was A Friend Of Mine" by a young, melancholic Bob Dylan. In "Glad You’re Here With Me", above the soft guitar and vocal textures, a harmonica solo combined with something synthetic (a treated guitar?) gives a slight painful sensation, but nothing piercing. "Sabotage" is as unsettling as the purity of the landscapes in "Smilla's Sense of Snow," and then suddenly a sitar interlude takes us to Tibet, as if completing this frosty panorama with a sacred atmosphere... and if we think the multifaceted creature is finished, we're wrong: it becomes more rhythmic, the guitar picks up speed, the relationships between chords return to conventional, and we're face to face with the psychedelic Beatles. "Purple Eyelid" in all its catchiness is still disorienting, because David Pajo may be shy, but he likes to amaze us with the means most congenial to him, that is, post-folk and a hint of noise in the background, which sublimates in the instrumental enchantment of the last track, "Northwest Passage".

The work is precious, it doesn’t get exhausted in a few listens. It’s not the typical album to absorb on first listen or to hear continually for a month. "Whatever, Mortal" is an album to dedicate a few but right moments: a trip towards the Alps, a northwest passage. "Whatever, Mortal" is the suggestion of a guy met at a party, with whom you stopped to talk in a secluded corner, away from the loud music, the alcoholic noise of others, from those wanting the stage for themselves.

"Sabotage"

"Sabotage, all the lights at sea
destroy your chances, sail in darkness
prove that you are free, sabotage
(I am the shepherd) all the lights at sea
(come you flocks to me) destroy your chances
(and the butcher) sail in darkness
(we work together) prove that you are free"