Tag Archives: Mother and Child Reunion

Pixies: Indie Cindy, Death to the Pixies, Surfer Rosa, Doolittle, and so on

Judge the artist by their best work. It’s only fair. In turn, artists might consider judging themselves by their worst work, or at least their average. It’s a good way to keep humble and looking to improve.

If you judge an artist by their best work, there’s no need to get upset about their current output if it’s a long way below their best stuff. I doubt I’ll ever hear more than a track or two off Indie Cindy, the new Pixies ‘album’ (a repackaging of three recent EPs). Bagboy was of no consequence to me, nor a decade back was Bam Thwok. I saw the Pixies movie a few years ago, thought it reflected pretty poorly on two members of the band (Thompson, Lovering) and well on the other two (Deal, Santiago), but whatever. I don’t need to like Charles Thompson or like what he’s doing now to appreciate what he did then.

I’m not that old, though, in case you’re wondering. I was too young to have seen them the first time round. I first heard the Pixies’ music in early 1998, a few months after the Death to the Pixies compilation was released. Those first few songs – the cover of the Surftones’ Cecilia Ann, Planet of Sound, Tame, Here Comes Your Man, Debaser – were all I needed to know to get them. Despite the over-representation of Doolittle and the corresponding neglect of Surfer Rosa, I still think Death to the Pixies was well compiled and a really good introduction to the Pixies. The range of music piled into those opening songs, some of it a little strange, some of it knowingly straightforward, was huge. If you replaced Tame with Bone Machine, you could pretty much encapsulate the Pixies entirely with those five songs.

Nowadays, if I’m going to listen to a Pixies record, it will be Surfer Rosa. I don’t hear the same thing in Doolittle that a lot of people seem to. To my ears, it’s thin-sounding, a little hemmed in, not exciting on a visceral level. The drums are at once too loud and lacking impact and body. The guitars don’t have that desperate feral edge to them (was there ever a better match of guitar player and recording engineer than Joey Santiago and Steve Albini?). Doolittle scores highly for songs you can lift off the record and play for people who don’t know the band, and I’d not want to be without Debaser, Here Comes Your Man and Gouge Away, but I’m not so struck on Tame, Monkey Gone to Heaven and Hey (maybe that’s unfair on Hey – it’s a good song, if not quite a masterpiece); the run from Mr Grieves to Number 13 Baby, meanwhile, is a huge lead weight dragging the record down. It’s a 15-song album that’s begging to be 10. Its reputation does seem to me somewhat inflated. Surfer Rosa may be much less, to use (Doolittle producer) Gil Norton’s term ‘portable’, but is a much more cohesive, satisfying whole.

The last two albums are only worth mentioning in passing. Bossanova’s very shiny, shorter on aggression. Its greatest moment are Cecilia Ann and Velouria; the rest, well, the band was getting short of ideas (not Deal, as Pod, the first Breeders album from 1990 shows, but this is where her marginalisation began). Trompe le Monde is mostly a bore.

The Pixies reuniting seemed unlikely to me ever to produce good music, when Charles Thompson hadn’t written a song worth spending time with for years anyway. Ultimately the band’s reputation rests on their debut EP and the first two albums, which are both classics, even if we have to agree to disagree over which are the best bits. Yeah, perhaps it would be nice if Thompson only recorded music when he had something to say, but Surfer Rosa makes a loud enough noise to drown out Indie Cindy this week, and by next week no one will remember the latter even existed. They’ll all be listening to Gigantic and River Euphrates.

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Kim Deal, Joey Santiago, David Lovering, Charles Thompson (oh, all right then, Black Francis)

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Everything Put Together Falls Apart – Paul Simon

As I have alluded to here before, I’ve been listening to Paul Simon since I was very young. Six or seven years old probably. My parents owned Greatest Hits, Etc. on cassette in the eighties, and it got played on long car journeys to relatives’ houses, probably more than any other tape we had. It sunk in, got inside me. What I loved most were the wonderful jazzy chord changes of songs like I Do It For Your Love and Still Crazy After All These Years (from Simon’s combover-and-moustache years), and the unknowably adult emotions that accompanied them. This was music I couldn’t fully comprehend and had to get the measure of slowly.

Nowadays, despite my love of the jazz harmony that underpinned Simon’s work between Still Crazy and Hearts and Bones, my favourite of his solo records is the first, Paul Simon, from early 1972. Its most well-known songs (Mother and Child Reunion, Duncan, Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard) are somewhat unrepresentative of the album’s mood as a whole. Take them away from the record and the remaining eight songs share a distinct character and feel – intimate, close-miked and alternating between metropolitan ennui and political anger, with occasional leavening moments of whimsy (‘Detroit, Detroit, got a hell of a hockey team’).

To be somewhat reductive for a moment, Paul Simon is Simon’s lo-fi album. The last Simon & Garfunkel album – the chart-conquering, record-breaking Bridge Over Troubled Water – was, Simon has suggested, difficult to make. As studio time mounted up (over 800 hours of it), disagreements surfaced (over the number of verses that Bridge Over Troubled Water should have – a debate Garfunkel, with his tendency towards the grandiose, won; over the inclusion of a song of Simon’s about Cuba and Nixon; over Garfunkel’s absenteeism while pursuing an acting career), and the pair did not make another record.

So while Simon had something to prove with his solo debut (to show that he was much more than just 50% of Simon & Garfunkel), he went about it in a way that was almost willfully low-key. If you’re going to make an album full of revealing, painful songs, possibly the best way is to do it matter-of-factly, without turning it into a big production. Duncan aside, Paul Simon is a small-scale, intimate experience, dry compared to the reverb-drenched Bridge, usually simple in arrangement and with mistakes and flubs left in.

The key moment comes in Everything Put Together Fall Apart, a short song that nevertheless modulates (sometimes semitonally) every couple of bars: a minute and twenty seconds in, Simon scratches his beard on microphone while singing the line ‘There’s nothing to it’. Such a thing happening on a Simon & Garfunkel record is unthinkable. Garfunkel wouldn’t have worn it, and in those days Simon wouldn’t have either. But after the protracted Bridge sessions, Simon was ready to make records differently. It’s a wonderfully human, magical moment; to break character, so to speak, in such a naked song, to look the audience straight in the eye and acknowledge the artifice of record-making, revealed a maturity that hadn’t been present on any S&G record, where everything (except possibly Cecilia) was done in dreadful earnest. It’s why listening to Paul Simon is never a heavy experience. It’s why it’s the most satisfying of any album that bears his name.

paul simon1 Paul simon2

Paul Simon