Todd Rundgren—Liars

Todd Rundgren—Liars

Liars—Never one to compromise, Todd Rundgren always had an inherent proclivity to detours. What set him apart from kindred spirits Frank Zappa and Neil Young was an enduring fondness for radio pop, rendering him a more self-effacing David Bowie than the former two. But again, Rundgren is his own man, and he was also more on the low-concept side of things: he liked to form bands—he liked the abstract of colluding with a band—he put sound before story (or anything, really), and any attempts at thematic cohesion were done for effect, such as the extemporaneous fourth side of Something/Anything? (1972) or the avant-estrangement of A Wizard, a True Star (1973). Given this, Liars appears to be dressed more like a Roger Waters brainchild:

"All of these songs are about a paucity of truth. At first they may seem to be about other things, but that is just a reflection of how much dishonesty we have accepted in our daily lives [...] The fact is, we are terrified of the truth." —Liner notes of Liars

Elucidating meaningfully for a rare moment, Rundgren heralds just his second bona fide concept album after Healing (1981). There was the strange mixed media project No World Order (1993), the amusing bossa nova makeover With a Twist... (1997), and the experimental voice-manipulation of A Cappella (1985), but Liars is most similar to the 1989's Nearly Human. An admirer of genuine passion in art, Rundgren recorded Human with a number of authentic figures in soul music, namely Bobby Womack, and came up with a product that, essentially, is truthful. Whether he intended this faithful music to be a statement or just simple artistic expression is up for debate—probably the latter, if bets are on the table—but Liars pulls no punches: it's a statement.

Aside from the aforementioned passage, Liars is sparsely furnished; the jacket shows Rundgren dressed as the Easter Bunny, who is a notorious lie of sorts; the photo itself a counterfeit candid. The song titles are mostly one word, non-descriptive, very Pearl Jam, with all of it combining to make clear the listener must spin the disc to get any real sense of the music. Liars sounds distant and roomy as the effective overture "Truth" pulses along: "I gotta find the truth/If I lose my mind, well I don't care." "Sweet" is about freeing oneself from societal pressure and being true to oneself set to a glassy, synthetic groove. "Happy Anniversary" is one of the best, most original cuts on the album; Rundgren uses a soft verse/hard chorus approach to explain the lies children are told about the opposite sex and how it forever affects the way they view relationships. More pointed is "Soul Brother," where Rundgren testifies against the rap game and what he sees as a lack of soul compared to the music that influenced him.

"Stood Up" has lyrics more winding and cryptic than the rest; it is more notable for its musical excellence, inflected with almost a Middle Eastern-type folk sound and impressive natural phrasing of its words. "Mammon," of course, is the attack on the profit-seeking side of religion, specifically American Christianity (or perhaps a similar institution), echoing Nietzsche almost verbatim. Then come the twin time-tales "Future," the promise of a better tomorrow that never comes, and "Past," about failing to accept what has changed in one's relationships—they are not as concise as "Pastime Paradise," but like the rest of the songs they are effective mood pieces. "Past" leads into "Wondering," featuring Liars' best hooks, but also some of the least substantial lyrics. "Flaw" is similarly gripping, a song that grows on the listener, layered with ideas about not being able to compromise in a relationship that is mostly perfect; the singer cannot continue with his love interest because their fatal flaw is, of course, untruthfulness.

Rundgren continues to examine the confounding nature of the spiritual, in this case the eponymous "Afterlife," observing that the great beyond seems to have ever-increasing standards of admission and also the idea of whether life after death can really be better than that which is corporeal; "Living" uses this same subject as a metaphor, but turned inward, as he puts the onus on himself as the singer to question whether he's "living a lie" with his unspecified companion. The penultimate "God Said" is the true confessional that eluded Rundgren for much of his career, as he asks why the enlightenment that apparently comes to others has evaded him; daringly, he speaks as God Himself, urging his followers to "get over [themselves]," taunting those who seek to win God's favor, or perhaps accusing himself of the same misguided actions. Liars is then put to rest with the awesome marquee "Liar," a five-minute drum-and-synth attack that is nothing if not potent catharsis.

Todd Rundgren's contemporaries, such as the individualistic Scott Walker, are often described as having a period where they lost themselves; while this does not describe Rundgren, there was a long stretch of time where his experimentation often obscured his basic musicianship. Liars is the point where he achieved the best balance between these aspects. The sprawling, tantric collection is his best in two decades. It seems overlong at a glance, and in fact Rundgren went beyond his usual scope with more than seventy minutes of music, but the songs are layered, the philosophy is complex, and his craft is as admirable as it's ever been.

Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds—Abattoir Blues/The Lyre of Orpheus

Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds—Abattoir Blues/The Lyre of Orpheus

Abattoir Blues/The Lyre of Orpheus—An artist that has been around for twenty-five years has probably already hit his or her peak. Even if they put out a particularly ambitious record, the work is generally relegated with bromide. Nick Cave has always had the advantage of not fitting into any particular musical world. His albums have never been held against an immutable benchmark like Exile in Guyville, Horses, or London Calling. It's rare to hear someone say, "He'll never make another Tender Prey," and maybe that's because Cave never made that perfect record in twenty-five years of service.

Twentieth-century Nick Cave was a mercurial being; each Bad Seeds record was its own beast right up until The Boatman's Call (1997), which read like a confessional. Often considered his best work, Cave took a left turn and wrote twelve deeply personal, affecting hymns and dirges as notable in their sincerity as they are in the absence of obscenity. He followed it up with No More Shall We Part (2001), a wintry but often cordial work that was a logical progression from its predecessor. That was unique for Cave and the Bad Seeds: for better or for worse, they never repeated a formula across consecutive albums. The diminished presence of Blixa Bargeld was becoming conspicuous as the band was beginning to sound less Einstürzende Neubauten and more like a church choir—or a Christian rock band, as they theoretically were at times. There was the return to straight rock of Nocturama (2003), but the material on that was less than captivating, and perhaps for these reasons, Bargeld decided to amicably separate from the Bad Seeds.

Bargeld, a founding member of the Bad Seeds, was certainly not expendable. His guitar work and other unique instrumentation made an irreplaceable impact on the Bad Seeds' first nine records. At the same time, the idiosyncrasies of the musical relationship between Bargeld and Cave had begun to hold back the evolution of the band. If there is one thing that Blixa Bargeld tends to resist in his music, it is beauty, and while this is not a bad thing in and of itself, the Bad Seeds were failing to sprout. Cave, having met the apparent love of his life in model Susie Bick, wanted everything to do with beauty in his art.

Abattoir Blues/The Lyre of Orpheus marked the point at which Warren Ellis became the engine of the Bad Seeds. Bargeld largely stuck to the electric guitar and chose to make his ideas heard through that instrument and special effects; Ellis brought a vestigial quality to the band, playing the violin, accordion, and on this album the flute, mandolin, and bouzouki. On the surface, Abattoir does not sound terribly different from Nocturama, which is not surprising: the Bad Seeds' rhythm section remained the same, as did producer Nick Launay, who often chooses to mix Casey, Sclavunos, and Wydler in front of the rest. "Get Ready for Love" exemplifies this, blasting through the kingdom of Heaven: the bastard child of "Nobody's Baby Now" and "God Is in the House".

"Cannibal's Hymn" showcases the new Nick Cave, not gripping the wheel so tightly but retaining his knack for the bawdy metaphor, here one of his best. Cave paints an indecent picture of sirens swimming with sharks, watching each party marinate in merrymaking. He refers to himself with a key allegory: "a bird on a fence," after Cave declared he was resurrected as the "Black Crow King" back on The Firstborn Is Dead (1985). "Hiding All Away" is a hidden treasure, not impressing on the first few listens but eventually delighting with its subversively churlish limerick; Cave waxes prophetic, claiming "There is a war comin'." "Messiah Ward" echoes "People Ain't No Good" and "Where Do We Go Now but Nowhere?", in which he mentioned "[his] future wife," perhaps demonstrating that Cave does indeed possess formidable foresight. Ironically, "There She Goes, My Beautiful World" has less to do with his muse and more to do with a "TV Party"-esque breakdown of the fates of various authors, with the curiously incorrect "Johnny Thunders was half alive when he wrote 'Chinese Rocks.'"

Nick Cave once reportedly said that "any true love song is a song for God," but it's hard to imagine that Abattoir Blues' best song "Nature Boy" is a paean to God when Cave sings, "I was having thoughts that were not in my best interest to mention". "Abattoir Blues" is the Vonnegut-flavored counterpart to "Hiding All Away", hinting at an overall concept that suggests Cave's movement away from literature independent from the Holy Bible. "Let the Bells Ring" is his tribute to the recently-deceased Johnny Cash, a Cave idol and occasional collaborator, while "Fable of the Brown Ape" is reportedly his song to Blixa Bargeld, though the connection is unclear. Whatever the case, it marks the change in tone to the Lyre of Orpheus album, kicking off with title song "The Lyre of Orpheus," a modified version of an actual myth.

"Breathless" is a different spin on "Get Ready for Love," guided gently by the whimsical flute-playing of Warren Ellis. It flows naturally into "Babe, You Turn Me On," a more stripped-down affair with Cave providing "atom bomb" sound effects. "Easy Money" is a dense, rainy lament that suggests Let Love In; "Supernaturally" recalls these subjects and also those from the previous half of the album. It, "Spell," and "Carry Me" probably form the weakest segment of the set—The Lyre of Orpheus itself is certainly the lesser of the two albums, but even at its worst, it's refreshing to see Cave and the Bad Seeds able to crank out songs prolifically. "Quality over quantity" is normally a preferable approach in anything, but for Nick Cave, dispersing his designs more broadly actually allows the Bad Seeds to flourish; the advent of Abattoir/Orpheus has turned them into a more complete band rather than unilaterally submitting to the atmosphere of the music. When they need to, they can still do that, and it ends up making those songs even stronger due to dynamics: even the weaker songs here make the characters on The Good Son (1999) seem like cardboard cutouts.

"O Children" is not one of these weaker songs, and in fact may be the best or at least within striking distance. It featured in the seventh Harry Potter film, which is in truth not a bad fit, and a rare notable Cave appearance not involving "Red Right Hand." It has remained one of the Bad Seeds' mainstays over the years beyond its own supporting tour. Its all-girl backing vocal, trudging drums, and ethereal guitar help make it one of the best songs they've ever done.

Abattoir Blues/The Lyre of Orpheus was a make-or-break record. If it turned out to be an hour-plus of Nocturama, it could have been a disaster for Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds. As it is, it ranks among other latter-day resurgences like Rust Never Sleeps. Is it that perfect record that eluded the band for so many years? Probably not, but double albums are rarely flawless, and Abattoir simply stands as an effort with a plethora of prime material, great to listen to at any volume, and a sign that there is life after death for a man obsessed with divine matters.