Where the Humans Eat
Willy Mason
(Astralwerks)
Lately I've been reading Bob Dylan's memoir, Chronicles. It's fascinating stuff, of course, a vivid, evocative portrait of the artist's formative years; but what really gets me is the way he tells it. Dylan's prose - the breathless rush of words, the exuberant citing of influences from Hank Williams to Balzac - perfectly captures the feelings of a young, hungry and unbelievably talented poet, hurtling forward to his artistic peak. At times the youthful folksinger seems literally aflame with a kind of Biblical portent: one can see momentous, earth-shaking events in the not-so-distant future, Blonde on Blondes and "Positively 4th Street"s and "Like a Rolling Stone"s.
Willy Mason is no Bob Dylan - let's make that clear right off the bat - but there are times on his 2004 debut album, Where the Humans Eat (reissued this year by Astralwerks), when he seems to be burning with the same kind of fire. You can hear it in the chugging snare drum and acoustic guitar licks which power opening track "Gotta Keep Moving," the sound of Johnny Cash's Tennessee train engine driving itself off the rails. You can hear it in "Sold My Soul," a reimagining of the classic blues hellfire narrative as sleepy-eyed, surrealistic burlesque. Of course, the fact that Mason has drunk deep from the well of American roots music can't hurt - his songs are as archetypal as his influences are impeccable. But it's the intangible, breakneck passion which lurks beneath the surface of Where the Humans Eat that will make listeners sit up and take notice. If you'll allow me the pompous critical pronouncement (sometimes they're necessary), then I'll go ahead and say that this album marks the emergence of a truly vital young talent.
Still, young talent is a volatile, ornery thing. And since Mason was just 19 years old when he recorded these songs, you can imagine how raw it gets. There are times when the singer's talent and ambition strain to surpass his capabilities; his voice, normally deep and monotone, strays uncomfortably from its range on the high notes, and his apocalyptic modern-world observations ("Oxygen," "21st Century Boy") have a tendency to stick in the craw. Singer-songwriters as social critics may have been a novel and powerful idea in early 1960s New York, after all, but in this era of coffeehouse overload, the bar has to be set a little higher. So Mason's politics are best served when they're attached explicitly to his person: "So Long," possibly the best song on the record, radiates brilliantly with all the naive optimism and confusion of youth without ever grating on the nerves. Then again, the equally tuneful "Our Town" grounds itself in experience as well, but its satirical retelling of an arrest by the NYPD comes off as just boring, a routine expression of college-aged authority issues. Maybe it's the fact that Mason grew up on the mean streets of Martha's Vineyard - hardly a ticket to rebel credibility - but I don't buy it.
Perhaps the best way to summarize this album's highs and equally fascinating lows, then, is with a line from Mason's own "Still a Fly". "You're just a kid, you shouldn't read Dostoevsky at your age," he deadpans; the real irony being that it's probably good advice. When the Humans Eat is the sound of a kid - albeit one with a stunningly honed artistic vision - not just reading Dostoevsky, but trying to write it as well. Of course there are fumbles. Frankly, at times these songs feel more like sketches, early drafts by a promising young artist, rather than polished, finished work. But just look at the potential! One gets the sense that the real test of Willy Mason's mettle will be the second, third, fourth releases; the ones where he finds his own voice and where, hopefully, his grasp will finally match his reach. And with Mason still barely the age most musicians are when they start to think about writing songs, there's no hurry. But just like those first chapters of Chronicles, it's going to be a thrill to watch him catch alight.
Official Site
Buy It
on Amazon
See Also: where the humans are eaten
(Astralwerks)
Lately I've been reading Bob Dylan's memoir, Chronicles. It's fascinating stuff, of course, a vivid, evocative portrait of the artist's formative years; but what really gets me is the way he tells it. Dylan's prose - the breathless rush of words, the exuberant citing of influences from Hank Williams to Balzac - perfectly captures the feelings of a young, hungry and unbelievably talented poet, hurtling forward to his artistic peak. At times the youthful folksinger seems literally aflame with a kind of Biblical portent: one can see momentous, earth-shaking events in the not-so-distant future, Blonde on Blondes and "Positively 4th Street"s and "Like a Rolling Stone"s.Willy Mason is no Bob Dylan - let's make that clear right off the bat - but there are times on his 2004 debut album, Where the Humans Eat (reissued this year by Astralwerks), when he seems to be burning with the same kind of fire. You can hear it in the chugging snare drum and acoustic guitar licks which power opening track "Gotta Keep Moving," the sound of Johnny Cash's Tennessee train engine driving itself off the rails. You can hear it in "Sold My Soul," a reimagining of the classic blues hellfire narrative as sleepy-eyed, surrealistic burlesque. Of course, the fact that Mason has drunk deep from the well of American roots music can't hurt - his songs are as archetypal as his influences are impeccable. But it's the intangible, breakneck passion which lurks beneath the surface of Where the Humans Eat that will make listeners sit up and take notice. If you'll allow me the pompous critical pronouncement (sometimes they're necessary), then I'll go ahead and say that this album marks the emergence of a truly vital young talent.
Still, young talent is a volatile, ornery thing. And since Mason was just 19 years old when he recorded these songs, you can imagine how raw it gets. There are times when the singer's talent and ambition strain to surpass his capabilities; his voice, normally deep and monotone, strays uncomfortably from its range on the high notes, and his apocalyptic modern-world observations ("Oxygen," "21st Century Boy") have a tendency to stick in the craw. Singer-songwriters as social critics may have been a novel and powerful idea in early 1960s New York, after all, but in this era of coffeehouse overload, the bar has to be set a little higher. So Mason's politics are best served when they're attached explicitly to his person: "So Long," possibly the best song on the record, radiates brilliantly with all the naive optimism and confusion of youth without ever grating on the nerves. Then again, the equally tuneful "Our Town" grounds itself in experience as well, but its satirical retelling of an arrest by the NYPD comes off as just boring, a routine expression of college-aged authority issues. Maybe it's the fact that Mason grew up on the mean streets of Martha's Vineyard - hardly a ticket to rebel credibility - but I don't buy it.
Perhaps the best way to summarize this album's highs and equally fascinating lows, then, is with a line from Mason's own "Still a Fly". "You're just a kid, you shouldn't read Dostoevsky at your age," he deadpans; the real irony being that it's probably good advice. When the Humans Eat is the sound of a kid - albeit one with a stunningly honed artistic vision - not just reading Dostoevsky, but trying to write it as well. Of course there are fumbles. Frankly, at times these songs feel more like sketches, early drafts by a promising young artist, rather than polished, finished work. But just look at the potential! One gets the sense that the real test of Willy Mason's mettle will be the second, third, fourth releases; the ones where he finds his own voice and where, hopefully, his grasp will finally match his reach. And with Mason still barely the age most musicians are when they start to think about writing songs, there's no hurry. But just like those first chapters of Chronicles, it's going to be a thrill to watch him catch alight.
Official Site
Buy It
on AmazonSee Also: where the humans are eaten
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