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I had already encountered John Congleton, the mad genius leading the Paper Chase since '99, about three years ago: there I was, laid-back, in front of the TV in the middle of the night, and there he was inside, howling his unhealthy lyrics in "Don’t You Wish You Had Some More". It was the period of "Hide The Kitchen Knives" (LP from 2002) and that was the single. What a deranged title, I thought, absolutely worth trying. I listen to the record and it doesn't grab me; we’re on two different worlds, maybe too much noise (his)? Or too much good humor (mine)?
Time passes, the scenario changes, the album changes, my state of mind changes.
A lousy period, nothing is going right, in one of the rare free moments I have, I'm in the trusted store, walking with a soft step among the displays searching for nothing, and a cover catches my attention: a headless man sitting at a bar table. Not something revolting or macabre, just an everyday moment with the protagonist portrayed without a head. Here he is again: the madman, I don’t think twice and I buy it. It's exactly what I need in this confused and static moment, a genuine shock that awakens me from the lethargy of "those who stand still staring at a forever severed thread."
Laborious - perhaps as much as unnecessary - to define the Paper Chase, inside you find noise and classical music, the perfect "fits" typical of math-rock, sounds of footsteps, creaking rocking chairs, waltz-like tunes; you might sense the solidity and precision of the more minimal Shellac, as well as the embellishments of certain progressive rock, a storm of sounds and clangor, rich with tension akin to the lyrics, the true peculiarity of the Texan band. Everything perfectly blended by the skillful hands of producer Congleton (90 Day Men, Explosions In The Sky), like the sampling of a fly's buzz, ideal for creating the stale atmosphere of "Now, We Just Slowly Circle The Draining Fish Bowl", a "dusty" beam of light filtering through a crack to illuminate Congleton, in a corner, alone, licking his wounds I'll come back from the war, but everything I touch seems to break, and I won't be the same man, I won't be the same man you knew...
Over this revelry, the piano often taken literally with hammers, or sinister and lively like a little devil in "What I'd Be Without Me", each "pounded" note corresponds to a step on that old staircase leading you down, to the basement of your most hidden and ignoble thoughts: Dear diary, I've fear I've seen the things I've seen, say pretty please, 'cause God is listening, and We all fall in the big empty.
Scrape away that veneer of catchiness - or in a hypothetical comparison with a human being: of fake perfection - present in his songs, returning the melody livid and bruised, turning it inside out like a sock and highlighting what truly hides - and what we hardly accept - behind the lamb-like splendid skin that we all have. A concept-album dedicated to the eternal dichotomy between good and evil or more precisely as Congleton asks: Do we really do good for the idea of good itself?
. Or is it always and only in hope of the reward that can be received in return?
Everything reeks of pessimism, from the lyrics to the music, to the cover and booklet, where photos of the decapitated automaton and the lyrics abound, with the word heart rigorously highlighted and present in almost every song, as if it were the only lifeline. The album opens with "Said The Spider To The Fly" with these words: I want your head, I want your wicked parts, I want to wring out your evil thoughts, I want to eat out your bitter heart
. A declaration of intent, or rather, a promise fulfilled. So I'll know who to blame then, if tomorrow morning descending the stairs at the first-floor landing, Mrs. Maria - with the fakest smile you can imagine - tells me: "Have a great day!", from my mouth will come a compulsive and freeing "Mavaiafareinculo"
What would I be without me?
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