Beck
Beck Hansen has always projected a wayward confusion. He is handsomely blank-faced, talented but never effortful, obscurantist but impossibly pop. In the early ’90s, to think that this Los Angeles County dust bum would become a generational weather vane or a music superstar or even just a guy with a mortgage would be a stretch. He barely even knew how to tune his guitar. And yet, his disaffection couldn’t have been much more than a shield – because Beck knew from artistry. The son of David Campbell, the highly accomplished arranger and composer, and Bibbe Hansen, a Warholian acolyte, actress, and performance artist, and the grandson of Al Hansen, the Fluxus art movement staple and Yoko Ono pal, Beck had outsider-art legacy quite literally woven into his DNA. And yet it seemed to take the high school dropout some time to put it together, first honing his craft as an apocalyptic blues street musician in L.A., then in coffeehouses at the height of New York’s goofy anti-folk blip scene in the early ’90s. When he did finally hit, it was with the curio of all curios, a song that accidentally altered the course of his life, and in some ways, how music was presented to young people for the rest of the decade.
The Winning Loser
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The first song on the first album of Beck's life as a famous musician is "Loser" and that was a fascinating decision. Not only did it immediately get it out of the way, allowing people arriving for "the hit" to not strain themselves, but it cast a curious light on an album that sounded almost nothing like what brought people to it in the first place. Working with hip-hop pastiche producer Carl Stephenson, Beck made "Loser" post-op slop rap — a shuffling drum loop, a wheedling sitar, and that implacable slide guitar riff that played like some siren song for Doritos-stained schlubs surfing their mother's couches. Thing was, though, the chorus — "Soy un perdidor/ I'm a loser baby/ so why don't you kill me" — was no reflection of Gen X malaise. It was just Beck self-referentially remarking on his own lousy rapping, apologizing to Chuck D for degrading his art form with gobbledygook couplets. That the song that followed "Loser," which hit No. 10 on Billboard's Hot 100, is the foot-dragging folk-blues lament, "Pay No Mind (Snoozer)" tells it all: Beck was no sloganeering icon, just a sad oddball trying to figure it all out. Remnants of his interest in noise music and an unusual talk-rap style — hopelessly compared to Bob Dylan's "Subterranean Homesick Blues" for years — emerge here in spots, as on "Soul Suckin' Jerk" and "Fuckin' With My Head (Mountain Dew Rock)." There's a kazoo solo on "Steal My Body Home," and flashes of Beck and Stephenson's emerging interest in sample-strewn production throughout. "Beercan" is a surreptitious autobiographical hoedown, as Beck raps, "I quit my job blowing leaves, telephone bills up my sleeves" on the chorus. Beck did, in fact, work as a leaf-blower for a year, a sonorous job he claims led him down a path to the noise music he pays homage to on the truly terrifying "Mutherfuker." But it's the years of obsessing over Skip James, Blind Willie Johnson and Mississippi John Hurt records that mark many of the songs on Mellow Gold, not the freakish pop touch of "Loser." And he got away with it because his deal with Geffen was a progressive one — Beck was permitted a surprising amount of creative freedom, as well as the opportunity to simultaneously release albums independently, a clause that would manifest itself almost immediately.
The Losing Winner
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Recorded well before "Loser" and Mellow Gold, this album paints Beck in the tradition of a dystopic bluesman and indie paragon — K Records founder and early supporter Calvin Johnson guests on several songs, as do members of Built To Spill and the Spinanes. But it was released after his breakthrough, standing as a portrait of an artist going minimal before the maximal splurge. Mostly, this is a case of cracked emotionalism — "Asshole" and "Girl Dreams" are surprisingly straightforward expressions of heartbreak. But there are also songs like the dissonant wail "Ziplock Bag," which spirals down like some alien combination of Frank Zappa, Pavement, and Howlin' Wolf. For Beck, irony ruled, except when it didn't. Only four songs on this expanded edition surpass the three-minute mark, and many are much shorter than that, a testament to his economy of thought. The imagery is less manic than it would become, his lyrics more rooted in narrative tradition than turns of phrase. And there's almost no rapping whatsoever. There were at least eight known Beck demos floating around during his prolific/broke periods in California and New York before this album was released, and what is here, is cleverly curated — an introspective album for blues hounds, misanthropes and soul suckin' jerks.
The Actual Winner
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In 1995, written off as a one-hit wonder with a frat boy base and, as SPIN once put it, "a generation's consolation prize after the death of Kurt Cobain," newly minted slacker avatar Beck was stumped. He recorded a tentative, folky follow-up to Mellow Gold with producers Tom Rothrock and Rob Schnapf, but disliked the moody results and shelved the album. From the ashes came the most important album of 1996. A chance encounter with E.Z. Mike and King Gizmo, aka The Dust Brothers, spurned a new direction, and the three began assembling Odelay from the trash cans of culture, slicing up musical ephemera from sources as varied as Them, Mantronix, Pretty Purdie, and Rasputin's Stash and began rebuilding them with massive chords, a thundering collection of drum hits, and nonsensical but memorable abstractions from Beck, a visionary linguist and prankster poet. The Dust Brothers famously defined the sample-stoked era with the Beastie Boys' staggering Paul's Boutique six years earlier — but this was something different, both more precise and sloppier.
more »There are genuine pop hits that begged to be received as such, like the buzzy spy theme, "The New Pollution," the stripped disco thwomp of "Devil's Haircut," and the aggressively self-conscious and still alarmingly good "Where It's At." But even the non-hits, like "Hotwax," maybe the best song here, feel as fresh and perceptibly cool nearly 15 years later. There were great difficult moves, too. With lyrics that were evocative but abstract and a dazed rap flow, Beck seemed like some polyamorous genre-fucker. After "Hotwax," ends, "Lord Only Knows" begins with a hair-raising scream, and then a countrypolitan tribute. The enchanting "Jack-Ass" actually ends with a jackass yawping into a microphone. Weird stuff. And yet, it all hangs together. It's hard to believe the weirdo blues prankster who sang about Satan handing him a taco just two years prior was capable of music this big, this warm, this funky.
At the time, Odelay was revelatory and deceiving. The everything-and-the-kitchen-sink-and-whatever-else-you-got approach seemed so novel, many thought it might inspire a new strand of genre-blind popular music. The album is so good, and people were so gobsmacked by it, they ended up calling it silly things like "alt" and "alternative commercial." But Beck's followers never really lived up, and Odelay was never replicated. Not even when he tried to do it himself, years later on Guero, his reunion with the Dust Brothers. Album closer "Ramshackle" reveals Beck moving away from his sleep-deprived Skip James affectations and honkified raps, as he turns in a heart-wrenching vocal that would predict some work to come. He'd never be this great or unusual again. And to this day, the decision to be this weird feels brave and unforced. Why didn't someone think of this sooner?
The Second-Place Finish
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The ol' bait-and-switch move here. Many expected Beck's encore after Odelay's critical and commercial triumph would be something dangerous and indescribable. Instead, he subverted one more time by recruiting Radiohead producer Nigel Godrich for a stripped-down batch of hazy melancholia. Mutations officially marks the trend of the loud-soft-loud album cycle for Beck — this wasn't the first time he followed a freakout with a flameout and it wouldn't be the last. But over time, the album has been improperly categorized as some escape from his own hype. In fact, Beck's legacy as a folkie had lived nearly a decade by this point and it would only grow with this full-breathed work. The singing voice that Beck had been developing — somewhere between a wheeze and moan, with adenoidal strains when he reaches for his upper register — is in fine form here, aided by Godrich's enveloping Moog keyboards, and delicate arrangements. Drums, for instance, are hardly a concern here, where previously they were the lifeblood of Odelay. Instead, we get lots of subtly recorded shakers, dominated by Beck's voice pushed high into the mix. What we cram to understand is his heart — matrons, gigolos, orange trees, sex and sadness course through the lyrics of this album. "A life of confessions/ written in the dust," Beck sings on "Lazy Flies," writing like some Henry Miller wannabe, wracked by guilt, searching for answers and quick fixes that never come.
more »Mutations isn't the explicitly genre-bending exploration many hoped for it, but in its way, it is Beck's most clearly conceived album. The label politics behind it, though, are bizarre. Initially Beck had hoped to release the album on Bong Load Records, taking advantage of a provision he had installed in his contract with Geffen. But when executives at the major label heard the album, they reneged and insisting on releasing it, much to Beck's chagrin. It's an especially strange snatch of trivia because Mutations, while a gorgeous perceptible ode to tropicalia, bossa nova, country, and blues music, is hardly commercial. Still, it went gold and won a Grammy. Maybe Geffen knew something Beck didn't.
Winning Is Sinning
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If Odelay was Beck's thrilling ego laid bare, and Mutations the critical, considered superego, then Midnite Vultures was the id run rampant. Inspired by Prince and James Brown, mostly, this folk bum-cum-alt-dum-dum somehow morphed into a kidding-but-not-really sex bomb, rapping about "Sexx Laws," arranging horn sections with his dad, David Campbell, to make Stax sidemen blush, and mingling with "Hollywood Freaks" like some pimp-strutting daddy-o. Midnite Vultures is a preposterous album in all ways, goofily conceived and performed, but so much damn fun, it's hard to understand why it never quite connected with a mass audience. Among fans, it's a massive favorite and it ought to be. Only Beck could imagine pairing Johnny Marr's winding, magisterial guitar playing with funk-raps, and yet here they are. All the jokes are good ones, like the manic "He my doooog!!!!" shoutout at the outset of "Hollywood Freaks" or the whirling dervish intro to "Milk & Honey" (I mean, the guy had the stones to name a velvet bedroom come-on "Milk & Honey"). But nothing is as clever, silly, or straight-faced as "Debra," the slow jam ode that is a perfect parody of Prince's "Raspberry Beret" and also a genuinely feeling expression of desire. Some critics thought Midnite Vultures was too cute by half, an exercise in smirk. But 10 years removed it feels vibrant and valedictory — the last time The Beck Character seemed fearless.
Can’t Lose For Winning
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Arguably Beck's last great album, and also his mopiest, Sea Change was feted at the time of its release as a mature turnabout for the man who had crooned about bedding a JC Penny clerk and her sister just three years prior. And that's a fair assessment, as this is Beck's famous break-up album. But unlike the other famed works inspired by broken relationships (think Dylan's Blood On The Tracks or Marvin Gaye's Here, My Dear), Beck rarely expresses anything approximating rage here. He is bitter, sure, letting his flatly-delivered sarcasm creep in on the twangy "Guess I'm Doing Fine." And "Paper Tiger" has a little menace in its low-toned delivery and dramatic orchestral arrangement. But this is mostly just a very sad album, performed by a person we're not used to hearing sound so sad. And the implication that tragedy is what drives great art, or at least justifies, is a regrettable fallacy. These are beautifully written songs, and in re-teaming with Nigel Godrich, who creates a spare, washed-out environment for Beck to work in, they've created something affecting and undeniable. But Sea Change is so emotionally demanding and sluggish, it can be difficult to return to.
The Comeback
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Three years passed between the bonhomie bonanza of Sea Change and 2005's spirited Guero, and the time off made many wonder if Beck could regain the same manic brilliance he'd held for so many years in the '90s. Reteaming with the Dust Brothers, who gave Odelay its brilliant-slash-n-build aesthetic, Beck does recapture some glory here, fusing pastiche-funk on "Que Onde Guero" and "E-Pro," a deadringer for "Devil's Haircut." And on the Nintendo-blooping "Girl," Beck does finally find a way to marry his emotional side with his eccentric pop instincts. Guero is hardly ever boring, its songs are laced with a veritable catchiness, monstrous hooks, and an audible professionalism. But that is also the problem with it. Though the sound is diverse, it's oddly predictable. Here is a crazy new Beck album! Like the ones you love! it seems to be saying. But while it's easy to admire, Guero remains difficult to truly love.
The Denoument
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This brief, ghostly collaboration with producer Danger Mouse is the least incendiary album Beck has ever recorded — not a knock necessarily, but there's clearly something ordinary about it all. Danger Mouse's obsession with '60s baroque pop and shaded identity should be a natural fit for Beck, yet somehow there's a distance to the songs here. And then you realize: Beck is all grown up. The desire for manic experimentation long passed him by. He's more consumed by interesting chord changes than dyspeptic noise rock, more wrapped up in his own feelings than in the abstract cries of youth. And that's not the worst thing — on songs like "Soul of a Man" or "Chemtrails," we get a new sort of demon howl, a realism about mortality, a fear of violence, a gruesome realization about the emptiness of it all. It's not surprising that these fears and desires fully manifested themselves in Beck — he's always been deceptively vulnerable about his own feelings. But it somehow hurts to hear our weirdo champion reduced to midlife crisis.
