Eels
Beautiful Freak (Dreamworks)
by Chris Adams
Depression and self-pity are as much a part of rock-and-roll as the drunk drummer. From Elvis drawling “Uh been so lon-lay I could die ” to Robert Smith bleating “boys don’t cry,” to Kurt Cobain’s screech of “everything’s my fault,” subterranean culture has utilized rock music as a forum to indulge its bleakest visions and most terrifying nightmares. At its worst, this kinda whining makes ya think “What that singer needs is a good dose of vitamin C, a twenty-dollar hooker, and a kick in the ass.” But, at its best, you find yourself hurtling on a wide-eyed, white-knuckle ride down the dark backstreets of your own mind, confronted by your own fears, your own feelings of alienation and sadness. Eels are apparently aiming for the latter. According to E (yep, just E), the Eels’ lead singer, guitarist, and keyboardist, his “mission” is to create music that “…salute(s) individuality in the face of depression… sometimes songs can make people feel less alone.” However, after several listens to Beautiful Freak, I felt pretty much as alone as I did before I played it, accompanied only by a sneaking suspicion that the enigmatic E hasn’t been taking his vitamins.
Oh, it’s not that it’s all bad. In fact, Beautiful Freak kicks off with a suite of five pretty impressive songs. The stop-start rhythms and kitchen-sink arrangement of “Novocaine For the Soul” are entertaining in an off-kilter kinda way, supplemented by an airy chorus which sounds remarkably like the Beatles circa Abbey Road. “Susan’s House” is a pretty intriguing “girl as symbol of redemption” vignette, which finds the sandpaper-voiced singer mumbling over a hip-hop beat past surreal, Edward Hopper-esque scenes of wrechedness, none of which matter ‘cos hey! he’s going to Susan’s house, and “she’s gonna make it right.” “Rags to Rags” is an obvious single, as it struts with conviction down some catchy, albeit familiar alt-rock territory – to wit: massive slabs of Nirvana guitar buzz, a huge melodic chorus, and production that screams “David Geffen loves my ass.” For my money (not that I’d ever actually consider buying this record) “Beautiful Freak” is the strongest song of the lot. Accompanied by just the chime of a Wurlitzer piano and some background strings, E delivers a song so assured in its simplicity and sincerity that the effect is just gorgeous. Actually, as far as sound goes, the album is remarkably attractive. Producer Michael Simpson (Beck, The Beastie Boys) injects a consistent deep blue lo-fi mood into the songs that give Beautiful Freak a sense of cohesion admidst the sometimes interesting, occasionally disastrous collision course of largely superfluous samples, Thomas Dolby keyboard frills, and hip-hop beats. So, yeah, on stri ictly musical terms, this band has something going for it.
My many problems with Beautiful Freak lie largely with E’s lyrics and vocal delivery. Frankly, the guy is – and I hate using this word, but there it is – gauche. A lotta this stuff sounds like little more than your loosely-constructed, insincere angst-by-numbers alt-rock sulkfest. It’s like, listen fella, if you want me to believe in the stigmatic torture of your pain, then you better not tread such tried-and-truisms as “I die slowly in front of you” ‘cos, when I hear that, I press “stop” quickly, laugh heartily, and sell your album in spite of you. And writing a song about not getting on a guest list is all well and good, but putting the most mournful harmonica solo this side of “Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands” on it is a bit much, dontcha think? Listen, “E” I never thought a guest list made me “somebody,” as you indicate, it just made me a fella with 8 extra bucks and a buncha free domestic beer. Also, it’s 1996, friend. You don’t have to kill all the instruments in a song so that people can hear you emote “fuck” with absolute clarity – people fucking swear all the fucking time in common goddamn vernacular, it’s no big fucking deal anymore, ya fucking pussy. I hear they even let you wiggle your hips on The Ed Sullivan Show now, too. And, by the way, am I really suppossed to feel sorry for a girl named, of all ludicrous things, “Spunky” ‘cos she “don’t like her uniform?” I dig your motif – the girl scout uniform as symbol of a constricting conventionality that denies her cosmic individuality in the face of an indifferent world, yadda yadda yadda, but I think Spunky’s probably crying because she’s been given the unfortunate name of “Spunky” in a really awful song. She’s eleven, man, she wants to sell those cookies, she wants to belong – she doesn’t give a shit about “individuality,” she just wants a slumber party with popcorn and to be called Peggy Sue or Beth or something. Succinctly, I hear little real pain or real damnation confronted by these lyrics. This is the kinda stuff that’s gonna appeal to suburban virgin Kathie Lee Giffords who wanna wallow ‘cos they didn’t make the cheerleading squad. (Now if it was guys who didn’t make the cheerleading squad – that might be interesting, right, Regis?) You’ve got a pretty good band there, pal – next time, as you whistle on over to Susan’s house, why not take a minute to stop and talk to those homeless folks, those crack addicts, those grey people on that endless subway ride to oblivion – betcha that guest list won’t seem like such a big deal.
