Sophomore Albums
Second Albums. Why are they so difficult? What, precisely, is the hurdle that makes so many reviewers refer to an artist’s “sophomore effort” in tones most frequently encountered in an oncology ward? Perhaps we expect one-hit wonders, or perhaps we are sufficiently aware of the tumultuous marketing of music, and therefore know that studios may have already abandoned their recording artists by the time the second release hits shelves. Why continue to support and help an artist mine the depths of creativity when one can move on to the Next Big Thing, the Bigger, Better Deal?
Or perhaps it’s simply novelty. A new record by a new artist is something one has never heard before. The balance of sound and words, or rhythm and melody, the particular tenor of a person’s voice are all new and therefore interesting. If the music hooks one, in a particular aspect or in a combination, then one tends to investigate the entire album closely, obsessing over and absorbing the minutiae. And the unfamiliarity is half the attraction, the novelty is key.
So a second album has a difficult hurdle: it must still be novel, but it must also capture the elements that made the first album appealing. So it must be the same only different. And that is a teetering totter that is difficult to straddle.
Now, I rather enjoyed Norah Jones’ first album, COME AWAY WITH ME, despite my childish inability to listen to the radio single without sniggering lasciviously (“That’s alright, dear… it happens to everyone and is nothing to be embarrassed about.”). And I knew that she was going to be in a tough spot with a second album: would she continue to push Blue Note into the mainstream? Would she slip from torch songs into the slimy ooze of light jazz? Would she move the opposite direction and sidestep into a more produced pop sound? How could she maintain her established tone and sound and not be charged with the crime of not having moved, grown, or progressed? Her second album is described as tinged with a Country & Western sound, complete with guest-vocals by Dolly Parton. But, as The Guardian rightfully sums up (after some needless but entertaining vitriol), the album is so ephemeral that one might “have trouble remembering whether you put it on.” I skimmed through the tracks at the preview station at my local record store and found myself unable to be hooked by any of the songs. Nothing grabbed, and so I left empty-handed.
Also on the torch song front, Shivaree‘s first album, I OUGHT TO GIVE YOU A SHOT IN THE HEAD FOR MAKING ME LIVE IN THIS DUMP, was a delight. Raspy and clever and sensual, it created an idealized post-modern nightclub in one’s head. The follow-up album, ROUGH DREAMS was due out in September 2002. Almost two years later, the album remains unreleased domestically, available only as an import. Where is the band? Where is the album? Perhaps this album was too different; with only a pair of songs maintaining the sort of sound that the band had previously established, ROUGH DREAMS might as well be by a different band. Were the album actually to be released, I’m sure the series of minor publicity interviews in the music mags would be full of dialogue about a “bold new direction”. Would it only be the third album before their press releases indicated that were “returning to their roots”, or would they have to wait until the fourth album? I should look more closely at the production credits between the two albums, as perhaps this is like the difficulty The Murmurs had with their second album, PRISTINE SMUT. Yanked quickly after release and remaindered, eight out of eleven songs were re-engineered and re-released as the appropriately-titled BLENDER. Perhaps ROUGH DREAMS will eventually see a domestic light of day with a Paul Oakenfold credit and the title CUTTING-ROOM FLOOR.
I had to listen to Sarah Harmer’s second studio release ALL OF OUR NAMES a few times until it started to seep into my head. Still, I knew that it was going to. After the first listen it created a familiar, dissatisfied feeling that was not a disappointment with the content, but a keen awareness of the fact that I hadn’t been able to receive all of the transmissions. That the poetry had passed me, that the songs hadn’t stuck in my head. There was no stand-out single or eminently hummable tune, but there was a sense that the album was large enough and deep enough to warrant further investigation.
But most impressively, the first track on the album, “Pendulums”, sounds exactly like it could have been a b-side or a hidden track from YOU WERE HERE. The tone and the energy are totally compatible with the previous album, providing a bridge between what has been and what is about to be. The album then moves on to a consistent sound that more active, more band-inclusive than the previous work, but without sounding like the songs could no longer be performed by a Woman and Her Guitar. Ultimately a little short, and shrinking to a quiet close over the last three cuts, ALL OUR NAMES is almost a pitch-perfect example of how to dodge the second-album blues. It feels like another chapter in a body of work, instead of sounding like a publicity stunt or a press-release or a critical re-evaluation of image. It continues to be songwriting and songs themselves.
Kaplan’s Groucho
I’ve never seen WELCOME BACK, KOTTER, but as a teacher currently working at his former high school, I may well appreciate some of its content. But for me, it has always blended into the morass of TV shows that I have never seen live or in reruns due to my extremely limited exposure to television programming over the course of my youth. I have not been privy to the enculturating joys of SILVER SPOONS, THE WONDER YEARS, THE LOVE BOAT, HAPPY DAYS, or anything starring Scott Baio. Jimmy Baio, yes; Scott, no.
Regardless, aside from the fervored testimonials about the show from characters on FREAKS AND GEEKS, KOTTER was not a name to conjure with in my book. So the news that a local production of Arthur Marx‘s play GROUCHO was to star Mr. Kotter himself left me with no attendant feelings of awe and with no stars in my eyes. The fact that the script had been penned by Groucho’s son did pique my interest, though, and a fortnight into the run of the play, I wandered down to the Stoneham Theatre and plonked down a pretty penny for a fifth-row seat.
Kaplan immediately got my respect for addressing the basic difficulties of the performance: he doesn’t much look like Groucho. “He’s too tall,” Kaplan said about himself, beginning the play daringly out of character. “His face is too round, his nose is too big, his nose isn’t big enough…” I laughed, as the round face was what had first struck me. I was impressed that he was able to anticipate our varied responses so accurately. It turns out that Kaplan has been playing the part for some time, and a stage performance of the part was filmed for video back in 1982. He’s had a lot of time to work through quirks of the production, and with the one essential difficulty that he has a moustache and yet has to wear Groucho’s patented greasepaint moustache at one point, the technical aspects of the show were almost flawless. With a notable and wonderful exception: archival photographs from the Marx Brothers’ lives were projected on a screen throughout the play, and at one point a slide failed to appear. Kaplan effortless ad libbed and continued gamely. At other points, he departed from the script to poke fun at a fellow actor with a case of the giggles and to respond to the moments that made themselves available.
Most impressive, though, was Kaplan’s transformation from old Groucho to ancient Groucho. His vocal mannerisms and body language were so fragile, with the meticulous breathlessness of the dying. His glacial interplay with the young reporter that comes to visit him in his last years was amongst the funniest portions of the script because of Groucho’s dogged desire to make all of the jokes that he came up with in response to a situation, even if he could no longer crack them out rapid-fire. The timing was wonderfully funny and dry, even if it was the complete opposite of the style that had made him famous in his heyday. I have no idea if the timing was Kaplan’s or based on actual accounts and footage of Groucho in his end days. Regardless, it was convincing and real to a hilarious and heart-wrenching degree.
Lastly, let me say that while my first reaction to Mr. Kaplan was the response that he anticipated, the final moment of the play was him standing onstage with a large picture of Groucho in last years. And the resemblance was spot on. Kaplan may not have resembled Groucho in his film days, but the play was about his end days, and the visual parallels were uncanny. I sat there and had to eat my previous assertion: it worked.
Pre-Approved Veteran Status
“Bob” sent me a large manilla envelope yesterday asking me if I was “taking full advantage and getting all the available benefits of [my] status as a war-time veteran”. Apparently “[t]he benefits are unbelievable!”
Well, considering that I’ve never been in a branch of the service — helpfully delineated for me (just in case I forgot due to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or Manchurian Candidate Syndrome) by cutesy little stickers on the outside of the envelope — and therefore never served during war-time, I’m not sure I have been taking advantages of my fictional status! What a fool I have been. The only side-benefit of being a “war-time veteran”, which I was somehow able to work out even though the United States wasn’t technically at war with anyone during the period I was between the age ranges of Selective Service, I’ve only luxuriated under the advantageous hotdog availability at the local Legionnaire’s Hall on Memorial Day. O, what a rogue and peasant slave am I!
I’m definitely framing my Certificate of Nomination at once! Without delay! I only hope that not being a veteran won’t prevent me from taking advantage of these fine, fine veteran perks.
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