Yo La Tengo
There's A Riot Going On

Exactly that. It took me a while to understand.

Have you ever cleaned someone else's butt? I mean an adult, of course. Along with everything else. Male or female.

Some call it "getting your hands dirty."

The act can be performed with great dignity. And with respectful delicacy.

There is a way to invade another's physical intimacy with attention and care. Even with naturalness.

Like when you feed someone. Helping someone perform a simple vital act they could not accomplish on their own.

That gesture is not only necessary for the one receiving it. It also benefits you. That gesture also reveals your own humanity. It emerges through this particular relationship, which starts from a state of disarming weakness.

I recently had to wash my father after peritonitis. There was an added burden here. A nuisance, I would say. Ok. But you can find the right dimension even for these things.

Anyway, this is the sense that suddenly dawned on me after four months of listening to Yo La Tengo's latest work. Entering intimacy with tact. With good affection. At most, harmlessly scratching.

But what kind of revolution is ongoing that has nothing to do with the unabashed "There’s a Riot Goin’ On," to say the least "epic" (not just because of the label), by Sly & The Family Stone? Ok, Nixon and Trump. But the political reference remains somewhat external. Or did YLT take inspiration from the success (by Leiber & Stoller in the distant 1954) of The Robins "Riot in Cell Block #9"? "There’s a riot goin’ on/ There’s a riot goin’ on/ There’s a riot goin’ on/ Up in cellblock number nine." Suggesting a sort of prison rebellion? Who knows.

Here, we don't find cries of rebellion but whispers. Searing. From a stream of consciousness to meeting. A peaceful yet subversive revolution. Intimacy with intimacy. A somewhat more authentic relationship. Sometimes disillusioned. But ready to start all over again. In the everyday things.

If the omnivorous (and personal) eclecticism of the Hoboken band favored the idioms of noise, country-rock, and psychedelia, if their indie rock has always been marked by the search for a balance between innovation and nods to tradition, blending electric soul with acoustic, now, after thirty-four years of honorable career, the Kaplan couple leave a lot of space to bassist McNew in writing and to his "electronic modernity." And James McNew, who also acts as a sound engineer for the occasion, creates loops bleached in bleach as a starting point for the trio's jams. Seeking ever more indistinct horizons. In a folk ambient not devoid of world and jazz references (between lounge and avant-garde). McNew's resume includes a curious tribute album to Prince of indie lo-fi electronics ("That Skinny Motherfucker with the High Voice?" from 2001, as part of the Dumb project). And if he likes Prince, then he likes Family Stone. But he also respects Can and Sun Ra. And Gastr del Sol? Perhaps. And then he looks at things higher and further.

More than dealing with actual songs, here we deal with atmospheres. The tracks seem still under construction. Indeed, still in a dream phase. Thus, the album results, overall, elusive. Undefined. We float among quiet sounds, low frequencies, languid timbres, fragile harmonic lines. Slowly. Among ambient experimentation, folk abstraction, bossa nova, jazz snippets, tribal rhythms, nocturnal inflections. Post rock, why not? In bewilderment leading to a kind of ecstasy. Out of oneself, towards others. In Polynesia. With friends. With the beloved. At home. On the Moon. Communicating truly. Improvising among various calls, without agitation. Expressing even anger with measure and reason.

The depth and details of the songs improve with every listen. The ensemble is ideal.

It begins with "Tu sei qui," but also "Voi siete qui" ("You Are Here"). A tinkling instrumental, fuzzy tones insisting on childlike rhythms. A silky blue shadow, we float on the surf refrain of "Shades of Blue" with Georgia. Then, the thing closest to a potential single, "For You Too"; a gritty, continuous bass, motorik beat, a guitar arpeggio that would cheer up the Felt, a fast and warm drum, Kaplan’s angelic and distant singing. "Dream Dream Away" is a diaphanous folk in search of water on lunar craters with a hypothetical Sandy Bull partnership. The ballad "Let’s Do It Wrong" is a light rain in the rainforest, while the drops thin out further in "What Chance I Have Got." The joyful bossa nova of "Exported Casual" contrasts with the experimental one of "Polynesia #1," a cover of the brilliant singer-songwriter Michael Hurley. "I’m going to Polynesia/ As the crow flies/ The reason I’m going/ Is because I done got wise." It concludes with the chorality of "Here We Are." With a crunchy guitar. "We are right here" among hisses, puffs, and footsteps. "Eyes shut, blinded/ Road remains clear/ Always on the run, we’re here." And everything fades into a just barely gentle silence.

So this white album, a 3 and ½ stars -mind you-, entrusting revolt to dream and utopia with an uncertain path, will not wipe you unless with care and respect. Or rather, more prosaically, it won’t wipe your butt unless you’ve soiled it a bit first. Hardly before. In short, its identity implies a minimum of relationship.