'60s
cult icon Scott Walker steps back into the sun
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The voice will grab at you first; perhaps you'll remember
it, vaguely, with a chill. It's a wobbly, quivering baritone-falsetto
reminiscent of Bryan
Ferry circa early Roxy Music, or more recently Antony
of Antony and the Johnsons. Except Scott Walker did it first, that moldy
warble crusted with sweet-sour pining for a past that maybe never was, and,
oh, a future that'll be a long time coming, if ever, if ever, ever...
The Drift is Scott Walker's first disc in several years;
he took his time to get it right. But then, he would.
A bit of bio here might help. Born Scott
Engel in Ohio in 1943, by age 16 Scott is in Los Angeles, a fledgling
teen-idol bass player who gets drafted into the singing Walker Brothers by
ultimate hipster producer Jack Nitzsche. The Bros have a huge hit with "The
Sun Ain't Gonna Shine Anymore," go to England, become even huger pop stars
with trilling, panting girlie fans, Top of the Pops showcases, more English hits
'n' fame. But Scott burns out, drops out, starts watching Antonioni, reading
more Proust and Burroughs, grokking contemporary classical. He discovers
Jacques Brel; does mid- to late-'60s solo albums: Scotts 1, 2, 3 and 4 -
some might say warped swan dives into ever more poisonous saccharine. He
tries to make a living as a normal "interpreter" of modern sappy song,
fails, hides out, walks the dog; things happen, dot dot dot. Then in 1995
Scott comes out with the magnificent Tilt, a digital-deconstructive
collage-collapse into a-new-kind-of-pop-music and queasily insane vocal
overstylization, unsurpassed until this new...item called The Drift ÐÐ stranger, harsher, more
obscure, more brain-searingly beautiful and more chillingly, terrifyingly
real than anything since its sequestered twin sister, Nico's The Marble
Index.
Walker, then (for he kept the name), is
known as a reclusive, between-the-cracked-cracks genius figure (thanks to
loving attention paid by the Brits) who has somehow scored the opportunity
to do what virtually no veteran professional musician gets to do, which is
to throw off the shackles of career wisdom and "pop" sense and just coil
down the worming hole of his psyche. He recorded The Drift at Air Studios with producer
Peter Walsh, a 5-by-5-foot wooden box for percussive effects, some
trash-can lids, massive string sections, sundry electric guitars, and a
tubax, which is a saxophone larger than a tuba.
Scott Walker has given some hints in
interviews about what these songs are "about," but he's aware he can't be
trusted to really know. Yet consider "Cossacks Are," retching forth in
spindly electric guitar through seemingly webbed hands, snare drum
thwapping, Walker bleating of stumbles in snow and various reigns of
terror. In "Clara," cue queasy swirls of electronic & electric wind
& wire and remorseless dense strings in spooky scenarios ("She knows
this room/she can never gaze it in the dark") all the more creepy because
of the remote helplessness of Scott Walker himself. For the man gives off
the distinctively blurry vibe of someone who long ago gave up the ghost and
headed for Gomorrah, and all this is creepier still because, obviously, he
is our very own barely suppressed creepiness.
Meanwhile, Scott's wispy friend Clara gazes
at the fountain in the courtyard and says, "Sometimes I feel like a
swallow/a swallow which by some mistake/has gotten into an attic/and
knocked its head against the wall in terror"; Walker stamps around and
cries in pain. Varied and ineffable pricks and swaths of sound-place
surface: bass drone, bleating Middle Eastern reed, distant thronglike
electric guitar; "This morning in my room/a little swallow was trapped/
...I picked it up so as not to frighten it/I opened the window...and I opened
my head."
He's written a song, but you've just seen a 90-minute film, perhaps with
your arms strapped to the chair and your eyes taped open.
In the hopefully controversial third cut,
"Jesse," Walker horrifically analogizes somewhere between the fall of the
Twin Towers and the stillborn twin brother of the towering King, Elvis
Presley. It's not a tribute to firemen, rather a plunge off the 50th floor
into a vat of oily metaphor. "I'm the only one left alive/I'm the only
one left alive/I'm the only one left alive."
It's by now obvious
that Walker's inventing a musical language as if to start totally from
scratch, as if it can be done only this way considering all that's
happened, whatever in particular that might be. Walker's sound
design/structures are an all-embracing but tradition-rejecting total-music
akin to John Cale's way of thinking on his production of those early Nico
albums ÐÐ vast, impenetrable clouds of "dissonant" string chords, electric
guitars suffering brutal contractions in odd tunings, fearful evanescent
spirit voices (our own), and altogether unidentifiable skewerings of murky
sonority mixed not just for depth but for crosstalk, feedback and
transparency. The transparency was a necessary effect, as these horror
stories' protagonist/observer passes through the music like a ghost would
wander through walls, from one dusty, cold room to another.
In "Jolson and Jones," Walker sings of "the
grossness of spring" amid a worrisome mass of bleak-house strings,
tornado-cometh guitars and electronic shred and whir, all coming together,
coughing roughly and staggering forward again, down a hallway of memory,
which is a very scary place. Though Walker is compelled to turn the corner
into that
room, his cracked croon isn't bloody and unbowed; he croons now as if in
complete loss of control. (By the way, what actually did happen there? You
remember...don't you?)
There is music ÐÐ rarely
encountered ÐÐ that makes all other contemporary songcraft look very stupid
beside it, that temporarily leaves all other music to curl up and die. The
Drift is
that kind of experience, encompassing fear and recrimination and
sentimentality and crushed naivetŽ and the feeling of having been stabbed
in the back and the heart forever and ever amen. What to call this is a
real stumper, but it's possible at least to convey the result of hearing
it: