If you’ve never seen Ben Bridwell, singer of Band of Horses, the lion tattoo on his Ed Norton-borrowed neck is easily imagined stretching to the window of his beloved in the album Everything All the Time. Unlike Coldplay’s Chris Martin or Soundgarden/Audioslave’s Chris Cornell, this scruffy folk artist has no famous blonde to hide behind or meat hook vocal range to sport.
|
| |
Band of Horses
|  Entertainment
 Art
"Everything All the Time"
(Sub Pop)
Released March 21, 2006
|
| |
|
What will be later recognized as one of the most sincere albums in rock history, Everything All the Time’s photo inserts of a Caribbean cottage room, plays on depth perceptions with a hand and an airplane in San Fran, and a transformer set against a rare storm in Arizona is the edge of town scrapbook introducing this primal exploration of instruments in search of intangible, disarranged genius. The images are a reminder when placed over the kitchen sink; all that can be built is foolish regarding efficiency versus all that grows wild.
Taking with him the progression of bass, drums, and slide guitar from former band Carissa’s Wierd, Bridwell has met the guitar, pen, and tablet in a time of musical need to present a fledgling biography in book report hesitation. Still the admiration these realizations command is not convincing Band of Horses is, large in part, poetic experimentation. But then again we didn’t believe Robert Smith of The Cure when he said he based his lyrics on years of drama classes, dreams, and fictitious plots.
The reverb on Bridwell’s voice paints him as a stranger in a friend of a friend’s living room, hesitant to smile or accept refreshments for fear of being a bother. Simultaneously,
his memoirs imparted in these unrequited love letter morceaus swirl around one’s head in a choir-supported rebirth. Each elongated note swallowed and bounced back up is to be consumed like coffee with a humbling mirror finish. Though a warning: these confessionals are overwhelming and best heard separately with time between them to digest their shocking fortitude.
Crescendos of ‘I’m yours,’ in Wicked Gil illicit sympathy for smothering the one in mind. ‘A tree for all these problems,’ in Monsters shows carvings of a crush ignored or
a retreat from apathetic cruelty. Young trendmongers, shed your image and have your
first kiss to number nine. Even if you’ve been caressed before, it will feel alien yet sacred
against the backdrop of Brookes’ banjo and Bridwell’s testimonial of the irresolute future. Take your love’s face in your hands as Band of Horses has taken the integrity of fragility in theirs.
Powered by AkoComment 2.0!
