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Sea Change Beck Universal, 2002
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Reviewed by Brian James
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Ever since he burst onto the airwaves with 1994's Loser, Beck has seemed like a talented artist that needed to do some growing up before he could be great. Such a maturation never seemed more overdue than in 1999, the year that saw both Midnite Vultures and the song "Halo of Gold" from More Oar, an all-star tribute to Skip Spence's lone solo album from 1969. The former was much more widely heard, but the latter is more telling. The original Oar was a harrowing self-portrait of a man about to permanently tumble into schizophrenia, but when Beck recreated a part of this album, he expanded brilliantly upon what could be more accurately called a sketch than a song while simultaneously letting his unchecked irreverence dissolve the affair into a snide, postmodernist joke. At that point, Beck seemed to be crossing over from irony aficionado to full-blown nihilist, and in a milieu that overlooks or even rewards such a philosophy, there was plenty of cause for concern that Beck's prodigious potential would be squandered on musical pranks. It is, dare I say, ironic that after his indelicate treatment of Spence's turmoil, Beck should suffer some of his own. Though he has been tastefully reticent on the details, Beck has gone so far as to say that he recently parted with a longtime love and that the experience served to inspire his new Sea Change. For an artist that sounds as if he's experienced no greater pain in his life than seeing Seinfeld go off the air, it's an intriguing premise. Will Beck show the world a new side of himself, or will he simply not have the sincerity needed to sidestep the pit of bathos that has claimed so many similar gestures? From the opening cut, "The Golden Age," he at least proves himself willing to antagonize fans that expect more of the Beck they've come to know and love. "These days I barely get by / I don't even try," he sings in convincing enough fashion to make you forget his track record. The following "Paper Tiger" comes close to losing the goodwill built up in the early going with Beck's trademark jumpiness, but it proves to be the last speed bump on the album. From there, he really goes to work. By being inspired by depression, Beck could have stumbled by trying to be his art rather than creating it: that is, by reenacting depression in his performances instead of depicting it with them. Such an album would have likely been as moping and lifeless as anyone feels at the end of a relationship, but Sea Change is neither. Its core mood is that of a resigned sadness that largely eschews self-pity, a mood rightly established with beauty rather than the discord of, say, Radiohead. This approach reaches its apex on the omnipresent single, "Lost Cause," and it's no slander to say that it sounds like a simple folk song upon first listen. The texture is actually much more involved than it initially sounds, but the fireworks are allowed to fade into the background, leaving an unmistakable humanity standing naked at the center. Beck has jettisoned the idea that songs are simply vessels for as many interesting sounds as can be crammed in. Nothing here sounds gratuitous or out of place, and the result is more focused than anything he has thus far put to tape. Focus, however, can occasionally slip into tunnel vision. (Who can say that AC/DC is not focused on rocking, and who can say that their songs don't all sound the same?) It's fortunate, then, that Beck finds the appropriate balance of variety and coherence, sounding neither monomaniacal with depression nor as sugar-high as he has heretofore been. The spirits of Leonard Cohen and his acoustic cohorts hang over Sea Change, but Beck shows himself capable of a wider range of musical expression than these gentle strummers. As the album plays out, he deftly modulates the mood into frustration, despair, hope and, most strikingly, fear. Most of this coloration is gracefully muted, and the sense is that of rising emotions being overridden by numbness and shock. That may sound boring, but it isn't and, even if it were, it would be amply compensated by "Sunday Sun" and "Little One," coming near the end of the album. In those moments, the restraint that has permeated the preceding songs begins to give way. At the end of "Sunday Sun," the music sounds like a man in free fall. What makes it so devastating is not just that chaos has interrupted beauty but that it suggests that chaos has been lurking all along, hiding just beneath the surface of the many pretty ballads and somber reflections. It's an excellent measure of the strain that goes into turning tragedy into gorgeous music. It's also an excellent measure of the distance that Beck has come with this album. In dealing with an artist like Beck, it's a little too early to declare this a turning point when it could just as easily be another genre exercise. You can't keep a restless man down. Tomorrow he could wake up and decide that he wants to do a record of Javanese gamelan music or something else equally cute and tiresome. Nevertheless, I certainly hope that Beck chooses to at least take a piece of Sea Change with him wherever he goes. He has said too much of importance here not to absorb this into his vocabulary. Regardless of the future, the word should go out that Beck has pulled off the rare feat of making exactly the album he needed to make, one that should stand proudly in the company of David Bowie's Low, Neil Young's Tonight's the Night, and yes, even Skip Spence's Oar. | October 2002
Brian James is a freelance writer and musician based in Chicago. His writings pop up here and there on assorted music sites. |
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