Monthly Archives: April 2014

Emerson Hart: Beauty in Disrepair

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EmersonHart_BeautyInDisrepairA superbly wrought album of modern power pop

Seven years after his album debut as a solo act, and more than a decade after relocating to Nashville, singer-songwriter Emerson Hart is back with his second album. Hart first came to notice through his band Tonic, but was heard even more broadly with the crafting of “Generation” for the Dick Clark-produced television show, American Dreams. His latest, produced by David Hodges, has a bigger sound than 2007’s Cigarettes & Gasoline, and the arrangements are more dynamic and dramatic than the singer-songwriter vibe of his earlier work. Hart’s voice fits well into these beefier backings, carving a human-sized emotional channel through Hodges’ powerfully constructed productions.

Like more recent Nashville transplants, Hart connects to the power balladry of modern country, rather than the city’s twangy musical heritage. There are worn down moments, such as the troubling reminders of “To Be Young,” and introspective “Mostly Gray,” but the album first grabs listeners with the soaring chorus of “The Best That I Can Give.” Beyond the latter’s instantly hummable melody, Hart communicates the song’s conflicted emotion with the tone of his voice and the top-range notes for which he reaches with every last ounce of strength. The apologetic lyric turns out to be icing on a perfectly bittersweet cake, and offers a preview of the album’s themes of uncertainty and unexpected repercussions. The exasperated questions of “Who Am I,” though not as venomously bitter, will remind listeners of Matthew Sweet’s Girlfriend, and “Hurricane” finds a similar middle ground between intellectual dissection and emotional flight.

From the number of songs of separation, one might assume this album is the product of a fresh break-up. But as a relative newlywed, it’s more likely that Hart is a romantic who’s collected a lifetime of emotional scars into the realization that life isn’t just full of ups and downs, it is ups and downs. The disappointments of “Don’t Forget Yourself” and sad inevitability of “Hallway” are the tail-end of experiences worth the suffering and lives that aren’t fatalistic. Hart’s mood turns celebratory for the twang-tinged love song “You Know Who I Am,” and the album closes with “The Lines,” an uplifting song about the growth that springs from inexperience. It’s a fittingly hopeful and inspirational ending to an album that dwells, inventories, analyzes and finally draws direction from the highs and the lows that give each other dimension. [©2014 Hyperbolium]

Emerson Hart’s Home Page

Sid Selvidge: The Cold of the Morning

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SidSelvidge_TheColdOfTheMorning

It’s safe to say that Big Star wasn’t the only 1970s Memphis act that didn’t find the contemporary recognition they deserved. They weren’t even the only 1970s Memphis act produced by Jim Dickenson to sail in that uncharted boat. Singer-songwriter Sid Selvidge, having been reared in Greenville, MS, followed the migratory trail to Memphis in the early 60s and continued to steep in the music of his native South. He fell under the tutelage of Furry Lewis, made friends with Dickenson and Don Nix, waxed an album for a Stax subsidiary and after a multi-year stint in academia, returned full-time to music to make art rather than commerce.

After an early 70s album for Elektra was shelved, Selvidge teamed with Dickenson to record this 1976 release for the local Peabody label. Unluckily for Selvidge, the label chose that very moment to go out of business (echoing Big Star’s trouble with Stax a few years earlier), returning the master and an initial press run that had no distributor. Luckily for Selvidge, the album was strong enough to gain notice with only haphazard distribution of a small number of copies. But with big city eyes upon him, Selvidge discovered that New York showcases and major label interest wasn’t what he was looking for. Instead of pursuing these leads, he returned to Memphis, revived the Peabody label as a going concern, toured and released sporadic albums of his own.

Though The Cold of the Morning garnered some critical notice at the time of its release, it fell out of print more than twenty years ago and drifted into the memories of the few who discovered its original issue or lucked into a word-of-mouth recommendation. The same could be said of Selvidge’s sporadically released later albums: treasured by a small number of in-the-know fans, but physically elusive to the larger audience of blues and guitar listeners who would have enjoyed them. The track lineup include three fine originals (“Frank’s Tune,” “The Outlaw” and “Wished I Had a Dime”), but it’s the album’s cover songs that fully reveal Selvidge’s breadth and interpretive depth. The set opens with superbly selected and rendered take on Fred Neil’s “I’ve Got a Secret (Didn’t We Shake Sugaree),” sung a shade more upbeat to Selvidge’s solo finger-picked backing.

The album’s other mid-60s gem is Patrick Sky’s “Many a Mile,” a song whose wistfulness is amplified by the purity of Selvidge’s voice and guitar playing. Reaching further back, George M. Cohan’s “Then I’d Be Satisfied with Life” retains a turn-of-the-century tone in Selvidge’s vocal slides and ragtime guitar. The jazz age “I Get the Blues When it Rains” is augmented by the piano and washboard of Mud Boy Slim and the Neutrons, and “Miss the Mississippi and You” is sung with an introspective lilt that’s less sentimental than Jimmie Rodgers original. Omnivore’s 2014 reissue adds six bonus tracks, each of which matches the quality of the original dozen. The traditional “Wild About My Lovin'” and Charley Jordan’s mid-30s blues “Keep it Clean” are especially fine, but truth be told, Selvidge picked great songs and made great recordings of each one.

Selvidge balances the nostalgia of older material with a timeless folk presentation of guitar and voice. Mud Boy and the Neutrons lend support for two tracks (“Wished I Had a Dime” and “I Get the Blues When it Rains”), but Selvidge’s picking and singing (including a cappella and yodeling) are so musically complete that the production really benefit from the clarity of his presentation. The productions are spare, but the complex interplay of voice, guitar, melody and lyrics is filled with subtlety and depth. Omnivore’s reissue includes a twenty-page book filled with photos and extensive liner notes by Bob Mehr. If you managed to miss out on this album over the past thirty-eight years, this is a perfect chance to get acquainted. [©2014 Hyperbolium]

Sid Selvidge’s Home Page

Adam Nayman: It Doesn’t Suck – Showgirls

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AdamNayman_ShowgirlsItDoesntSuchThoroughly entertaining defense of the indefensible

Readers might be inclined to think this book is a put-on, but Adam Nayman’s apparent sincerity, obvious writing talent and impressive analytical dexterity is convincing. Convincing that he means it, if not necessarily right. Nayman is a 20-something film critic, and his well-researched treatise on Paul Verhoeven’s legendary 1995 box office bomb is a thoroughly entertaining read, if not necessarily a completely convincing defense. Nayman is among a group of critics that have turned the table on the film’s initial reception, suggesting that Showgirls isn’t just not bad, it’s a modern classic that was sorely misunderstood by both reviewers and viewers.

The key to appreciating Showgirls is, paraphrasing author Anne Rice, to interrogate the text from the right perspective. Nayman’s approach isn’t tongue-in-cheek irony, simple-minded contrarianism, or the mental slight of hand of Jason Hartley’s Advanced Genius Theory; his appreciation is unabashed fandom.  Nayman argues that the careers of director Verhoeven and writer Joe Eszterhas anticipate their work in Showgirls, and that analysis of the film itself reveals that the filmmakers knew exactly what they were doing. Verhoeven is posed as a satirist and provocateur, the film’s lack of subtlety as an artistic choice, and the laughter it generates for over-serious scenes as an opportunity rather than an accident.

If one accepts the film’s most ridiculous moments as intentional, rather than unconscious mistakes, a number of critical analyses begin to flow. First and foremost for Nayman are the film’s mirror-like, self-reflexive qualities. Starting with the film’s star, Elizabeth Berkley, Nayman suggests that Showgirls provided an opportunity for her reinvention as a grown-up actress that parallels the film’s main character, Nomi Malone. But as Nayman continues to ascribe intention to what might easily be a lack of care or perspective, one starts to wonder if Occam’s razor is a more straightforward explanation of the parallels. Berkley and Malone both aimed for grown-up, but ended up in entertainment that was merely adult.

It’s possible that Nayman is seeing depth where there are really only artistic shallows, and he’s seeing causation where there is really only coincidence. Nomi’s relationship with her roommate might be subtle and complex, but it might simply be poorly thought out and rendered. The homophones for Nomi – “Know Me?” and “No Me” – could be clever entendre, or they could be nothing more than on-the-nose, inch-deep word-play. He argues that the film is too self-conscious to be camp, but it’s difficult to overcome the feeling that no matter how many of the film’s worst moments you explain away, the film still manages to be worse.

Nayman brings welcome context for casual viewers, including the existence of the little-known companion book Showgirls: Portrait of a Film and Rena Riffel’s low-budget spoof sequel, Showgirls 2: Penny’s From Heaven. Though he occasionally employs the sort of hyperbole for which the film was originally ridiculed, the bulk of his analysis is well-reasoned, deftly written and hugely entertaining. Nayman may be an analytical genius, or simply a talented writer tackling a lost cause; but either way, his book is a fun and surprisingly thought-provoking read. [©2014 Hyperbolium]