Most polyrock, polypop, or polypap, whichever name you care to pigeonhole it with, is strictly yawnsville. Nothing more, you see, than soundtrack muzak for people who have a penchant for falling in love with various sized O’s. A kind of music lost in the pretense of being a great sonic tenderizer enabling us to have more fun living in these od’d 80s. An unusual sound wallowing in the not so interesting philosophical quandary of how to love your Lowry, and still justify cruisin’ the flesh pits for perversion and pleasure. A collected beeping noise being perpetrated by slavering legions of junior Rotwangs caught up in the desirous search for that ever-elusive greasy heart. In other words (pause) music that’s facelessly monotonous, and mystifyingly chameleonic.
Yet, interestingly enough, Ric Ocasek’s Beatitude, a borderline polypopper--actually more pop than poly, but poly enough to be tossed in the polypop corner--isn’t the yawnorama of tech-mech I expected it be. Instead, it’s a strong solo effort rife with inner contradictions and some fairly glitch-free musical melodizing.
Added to this is, of course, the blitz word poetry of Ocasek, whose vision of the world is one of implosion and velocity. His quirky little raspings of language paint an awkward, occasionally humorous (and therein lies his strength) canvas of a hip gone world where remoteness and estrangement are viciously replacing planet love and one on one personal contact. Surprisingly, his lyrics read pretty well when taken out of the context of the Cars sound, a sound he’s a driving force behind. Generally, lyrics taken out of the group context and left to their own devices suffer from their own inner pretense, but here they don’t.
And, unlike most of the new mechanicians of the tech-mech sound, Ocasek somehow manages to add a little bit of funky meatiness to his music. Some of it even rocks a little: praise the lord and pass the sterno, mechismo music that rawks, at last!
Of course, the attitude of Beatitude at any altitude comes from its toons, and just like most albums these days (when was the last time you heard an album where ALL the songs were well thought out and capable of standing on their own, outta the framework of the album...doesn’t happen much anymore, now does it?), there are songs that oscillate between moments of clarity and vision (“A Quick One,” “Out Of Control”) and moments of quiet terminal stasis (“Jimmy, Jimmy,” “Time Bomb”), with a few blinks, like “Connect Me Up” and “Something To Grab For,” that are about as entertaining and exciting as sitting butt-naked on an ant hill (or formicary as we in the arachnid biz call ’em...).
I scratch my bestubbled dewlap, think twice, walk over to a shadowy corner, do a 180 degree turn to the right, raise an eyebrow, do a 180 degree turn to the left, raise another eyebrow, then stutter step through a 360 degree turn realizing as I do so that even though this record doesn’t offend me--as most do--I really prefer listening to the sound of far off freeway accidents and my Ultimate Spinach albums--especially “Hip Death Goddess” (whatta toon).
Hey, how do you like that I didn’t even tell you what “Beatitude” means, nor did I mock out tall, lanky people who look suspiciously like they come from Philadelphia...
Get your own Free Home Page