Album Review: St. Vincent - St. Vincent

St. Vincent
St. Vincent
Rating: Grrrr

On the album cover for her self-titled fourth album, Annie Clark (a.k.a. St. Vincent) assumes the position of queen and/or goddess upon her own throne, ready to listen to her subjects/admirers. It seems fitting as she basically lives in her own musical world, a quirky guitar-slinging vocalist whose intimate, personal ruminations have kept her firmly outside the pop world, but have charmed her cult-like base of fans and music critics. Over her first three records she has retained her same literary lyrical output while moving her music into odder realms, St. Vincent is probably the weirdest pop record you will hear all year, its in your face musical direction and more direct lyrics find Ms. Clark being bolder and more forceful, and while for me it is not her best record (that, for me, is the sublime Strange Mercy), it is her most confident and cohesive record.

Starting off with the buzzy, jerky "Rattlesnake," Clark's brittle guitar snakes around the clanking synths and bassline as the song seems to be both a sigh of relief to be rid of humanity and also a post-apocalyptic nightmare. Her lyrics whipping between lines like "No one around so I take off my clothes/Am I the only one in the only world?" to "Running, running, running, rattle behind me/Running, running, no one will ever find me." On St. Vincent, Clark's tongue fairly drips with acid most of the time, unsympathetic to her characters. On the hypnotic "Prince Johnny," Clark has little time for a lover who seeks the attention of others, sighing "When all your friends and acolytes/Holding court in bathroom stalls/Where you pray to all/To make you a real boy."



During the anti-Internet obsession track "Huey Newton," she decries all the "Fuckless porn sharks/Toothless but got a big bark/Live children blind psychics/Turned online assassins;" which is continued on the horn driven track "Digital Witness," where Clark turns her razor sharp wit to people who spend their lives watching television or in front of the computer screen, never experiencing real life. Clark moans "People turn the TV on it looks just like a window."



Musically, Clark creates a world of paranoia, keeping her rhythms tight but allowing for more schizophrenic use of her screaming guitar lines, and use of harsher synth tones. Where her earlier records kept a very civil, WASPish tone, St. Vincent allows Pandora to open her box and let loose. Whether it be the barely reeled in fury of "Birth In Reverse," the skronky bluster of "Regrets," or the hyper-analog synth funk of "Bring Me Your Loves." But there are moments of transcendent beauty, like the hauntingly gorgeous melody of "Prince Johnny," or the delicate, aching synths of "I Prefer Your Love."

For most of St. Vincent, the record builds logically and exponentially, gathering force and steam, but unfortunately hits a bit of a dead for me at the back end. The final three tracks squander the build up and leave the record at a whimper for me. "Psychopath" limits itself to a wan groove, "Every Tear Disappears" lurches and stutters under a quite lovely vocal track, while closer "Severed Crossed Fingers" meanders with a melody that feels more childish than childlike.

But these slight misgivings don't distract strongly from the rest of the record. St. Vincent is confident and bold, crackling with energy and wit, and further shows what a brilliant songwriter and musician Ms. Clark is, and has become. What's even more amazing is how she has progressed so much over 4 albums, indicating we will be hearing a lot more from her in the future.

Rating Scale:

Chilfos: masterpiece; coolest thing I've heard in ages.

Woof Daddy: excellent; just a hair away from being a masterpiece.

Grrrr: very good; will definitely be considered for my top releases of the year.

Yeah Daddy Make Me Want It: good; definitely invites further listens and piques one's interest for more material.

Meh: not horrible, but certainly not great; could have either been polished, trimmed, or re-thought.

Jeez Lady: what the hell happened? Just plain bad. They should hang their heads in shame and be forced to listen to Lady Gaga ad nauseam as penance.

Tragicistani: so bad, armed villagers with pitchforks and torches should run the artist out of the country for inflicting this abomination on the human race.