A. Bubul 2009-11-03
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Isaac Brock and I have a lot in common. We are both troubled by constant, directionless motion, the avarice of consumers, the double standards that corrode our society. We're both geniuses in our own way (mhmm). And we're both aware of how laughable and futile each of our endeavors are.
My skepticism and uncertainty about the act of articulating my opinion on what a band does mirrors Brock and company's cynicism at participating as artists--or simply people--in a world that is so screwed up. But that is why this band continues to shine in their own dim and distorted light--they are masters of the participation/subversion dynamic. (Almost as good as I am at it.) They are mega indie-rock stars, yet have been consistently uncompromising to any standards or expectations outside of their own weirdness. (I'm weird too... okay I'm done comparing.) In truth, they've undergone their fare share of changes since This is a Long Drive, but their course has been true: No One's First and You're Next is a strong addition--albeit not exactly a brand new one, as some of the songs here date back to '05--to a canon that has lavishly displayed loathing and despair, whimsy and regret, and the occasional dash of hope in many brilliant corners.
Listening to Modest Mouse is something like the aural equivalent of watching Cirque du Soleil--a production that caters to a darkly refined aesthetic. The stuff is not for everyone, which makes me wonder why critics have never taken a sharper eye to the lispy screams and relentless cynicism, dismissing Brock and co. as bumbling, death-obsessed carnies. The reason this hasn't been done yet--and why it most likely won't be any time soon--is the power of Brock's imagery. A trademark of great lyricists is their ability to express inner turmoil in a way that reflects the grander mayhem existing in the outside world. Brock has always done this well by way of his panicked, feverish poetics. Yet Modest Mouse's work is distinctly elegant in that it strikes the perfect balance between feral shouting and delicate turns of phrase. In the past, we've seen this beauty distilled through the relatively carefree ("Float On") as well as the macabre ("This Devil's Workday/"Satan in a Coffin"). No One's First lands somewhere between the two, offering another sound work that--unlike the efforts of lesser artists, which fall short of crafting new and special critiques of our generation's paradoxes and malignancies--manages to strike at the heart while still remaining quintessentially Brockish: dark, ambiguous, and sad.
Despite the peppering of certain songs with such banal (for Brock) repetitions as "You know, you know, you know it all went wrong" or "We're in some trouble now," the band's gripping metaphors are for the most part still there. Compared with MM's previous two singles--the irresistible "Float On" and "Dashboard"--the opener "Satellite Skin" is forgettable. Crushed moth-wing feelings turned to powder is intriguing, but the music is regrettably straightforward, bordering on boring. It could be a single for any run-of-the-mill college rock band. And while there's nothing groundbreaking about hearing complaints registered with "run(ning) on treadmills in a perfect line" or "exchanging comfort for more fashionable clothes", Brock gets deeper midway through ''Guilty Cocker Spaniels": "I drew a blank/we put it in a frame/Wait what you're winning, you didn't say this was a game/Well I guess I'll just have to play and play/Until I'm out of cash..." The sentiment of futility--feeling dragged around on a cosmically asinine game board--continues gorgeously into "Autumn Beds", which takes aim at the heartlessness of the legal system. When I hear Brock wail: "As sure as clocks all bleed in time, we'll show up early just to wait in line" followed by a perfectly utilized, flurrying banjo riff, the hair on my neck stands up every time.
Perpetual Motion Machine, rife with twisted marching horn blasts, has undeniable appeal. Despite tepid verses suggesting pages running out/races ending as indications of life's meaninglessness--again, I'm holding Brock to a higher standard-- "We all try harder as the days run out" serves well as an ironic, everyman chorus. Sandwiched by "History Sticks to Your Feet"--a curious yet unfulfilling track that ties chugging guitars to being at the movies and then, with little segue, talk of the sun's diary being kept in canary holes and warming the reader's skin (the sunnier side of Brock surfaces here)--and "I've Got it All (Most), the only throwaway of the album, the penultimate "King Rat" is a stunner. While aforementioned lines like "You know it all went wrong" are in part forgettable because of their delivery, here Brock's threatening howl--"What do you have to say for yourself?!"--is memorable for the same reason. (Check the Heath Ledger-directed video of this one for terrifying whales-hunting-humans fun.) Brock is begging a question of supreme relevancy: In this day and age, who is willing to stand up and be accountable? By continuing to produce music with so much eloquent ferocity--and refusing to pander to anyone--they are.
