In previous years Reverberations conducted
a marathon, day by day, countdown of the top 25 albums from the waning
year. This year, between today and the end of the month, we will take a
bit less ambitious approach, chronicling only the top 10 releases of
2012. In January, in addition to reviews of brand spanking new music,
we will also make occasion to reflect on some of the year's other fine
recordings.
For our top 10 countdown, many of these selections will have been covered previously in Reverberations, in which event we will simply link you to the earlier review. A few of these, however, will require new reviews.
Here, however, is a new review of the No. 4 title:
Cat Power - Sun (Matador)
Since it
arrived in my mailbox I have listened to Sun
almost daily. Always a fan, this Cat Power album especially touches me. Yet I
had not been moved to write about it. It’s one of those albums that you “get”
without necessarily having the capacity or inclination to explain. But then
when you make it your No. 4 album of 2012 … well, say something you must.
Throughout her early career, Cat Power was painted into the
corner of suffering female icon of indie rock. With 1998’s Moon Pix Chan Marshall’s (Cat Power’s given name) inchoate longing
began to take on form. On her Covers
Record she gave highly personal interpretations of familiar songs,
including a quietly killing version of “Satisfaction,’ which bravely eschewed
the song’s familiar chorus.
Marshall
showed a wider range and quietly soulful touch on albums like The Greatest, recording with the same
musicians Al Green used at Hi Studios in Memphis. Jukebox, her second ‘covers’ album, was
a step back in terms of authority and consistency, but still had some winning
interpretations, especially her Stones-y take on Dylan’s “I Believe in You.”
Throughout her journey, it was Marshall’s wounded, and deeply human voice
that commanded attention. Sun turns
those wounds into ecstasy and the embrace of our shared humanity. It was a long
time in the making and not without travail.
Marshall
tried using her live band to record these tunes, but felt the sessions didn’t
click. In fact, she halted them to cut Jukebox
instead. Then, personal issues intervened. Her record company Matador
expressed frustration with her lack of progress and tried to assign her a
producer. This irritated her, of course; she lamented "telling [a musician] they need a
producer is like telling someone that they need a nose job. It activates
something in you that makes you feel like a loser."
After some time away from the concept Marshall heard some Beastie Boys mixes by Philippe
Zdar, a member of the band Cassius. On intuition she approached him to help her
with these songs. Since she was paying for the sessions herself he worked on
contingency, given his belief in the product. Long story short … it worked. Sun combines elements familiar to any Cat
Power fan, but combines them with new splashes of electronic sound, creating a
new kind of Cat Power music that is brazenly non-idiomatic and powerfully
universal.
For a song like “Ruin” Marshall combines a Latin piano riff
with Keith Richard’s style guitar punctuations, all on top of a dance-rock
groove, supporting a lyrical travelogue that says “we’re sittin’ on a ruin” but
lamenting “bitchin’, complainin’,” - making
an implicit argument against Mayan Calendar catastrophe whining. The following
track “3, 6, 9” rolls out easy funk, its piano and synthesizer lines sinewy and
sensuous, the perfect complement to her tale of ravaged love.
Marshall’s existential credo is clear in “Real Life,” a
series of character negations (“I met a doctor, he want to be a dancer/I met a
mother, she want to be alone”) with the tough truth that “sometimes you gotta
do what you don't’ wanna do, to get away with an unordinary life” – a bit Nietzschean,
a bit dharma, all sexy conviction.
But while “Real Life” may flirt with homo superior
assertions, “Human Being” asserts everyone’s need for fulfillment and identity.
A downbeat cousin to the song of the same name by the New York Dolls, “Human
Being” is a chanted claim to the availability of transcendence for all of us.
“All the friends there we used to know, ain’t comin’ back” Marshall coolly opines in “Manhattan.” A beat box rhythm framed by a
repeated three chord figure circles through and around the “never leave Manhattan” phrase,
insinuating an emotional abyss.
A bluesy riff insistently drives “Silent Machine,” as Marshall sings “you lie,
you lie, you lie.” The bluesy wallop surrenders briefly to a bridge that sounds
like electric aural cubism.
At 10:57 “Nothing But Time” shares some chords and communion
with David Bowie’s “Heroes.” Another amalgam of acoustic piano and synth
sounds, Marshall stretches out vowels and words into something like a mantra,
culminating in a simple declaration of ‘you wanna live, your way of living.”
Simple stuff, but powerful, even ecstatic as it builds; Marshall is joined by Iggy Pop, sounding like
some avuncular Buddha. The song ends at about 8 minutes, fades out, then into a
coda; all of it too long, but seductive, never feeling like a cheat.
On Sun Chan Marshall is a scarred
celebrant, and not just of her own identity and vision, but of a common destiny.
In locating her touch, Marshall
also composes her most direct set of songs ever – accessible and highly
personal at the same time. “Marry me, marry me to the sky” she sings on
“Cherokee;” and it’s hard not to be swept away. It took a long time to deliver, but Sun does, making it Cat
Power’s (and Chan Marshall’s) strongest song cycle ever.
Reverberating: 9.0
