This review is written out of a certain bizarre sense of duty.
See, I don’t think we should be missing any major artists here on
the DV; I like to think that if someone has someone else as an
influence, we should have at least one review by that artist.
Somewhere. Somehow.
The avant-garde cognoscenti know what the Residents are. They’ve
influenced a great deal of artists, some of whom you might have
even heard. But man oh man, they’re tough to review.
See, the first thing I generally try to give in a review is
genre, so you have some clue of what the hell I’m talking about.
The Residents have no genre. Or, rather, they are a genre of their
own, recording for thirty years in the twilight-Dada world of Music
Too Weird To Be Quantified. Their music is a spinning Cuisinart of
styles, instruments, time signatures, and vocal approaches. Think
Captain Beefheart, think Zappa, then go even weirder. You either
get the Residents or you don’t, and it’s no fault of yours if you
don’t. I think I do, but the jury’s still out; get back to me when
I’ve listened to them a bit more.
There are a few things I can tell you.
Demons Dance Alone is impeccably performed and produced. The
sound is clear, clean, and eminently listenable on its own merit.
Individual instrumental highlights like the hi-hat cymbal on “The
Weatherman” and what I think is a bass saxophone on “Caring” are
breathtakingly well-recorded. The same goes for the vocals;
alternately male and female, growling and yodeling, wistful and
ominous, they’re all engineered and mixed wonderfully.
The music, though, leaves me without adequate grasp of the
English language to explain. There are moments that you can almost
get your brain around — “Ghost Child” seems to be about a lost and
dead child, “Betty’s Body” seems to be about pinup star Betty Page,
and “Honey Bear” is one of the funniest descriptions of a
dominant/submissive sexual relationship I’ve ever heard. Then there
are the moments like “The Car Thief,” “Mickey Macaroni,” and “Make
Me Moo” that are so far out in the Fishbowl Of Surreality that I
can only hold on to the kinkajou and surf along for the ride.
Oddly enough, though, I like it. Damned if I can tell you why —
perhaps I merely lack the appropriate mental antibodies to fight
the Residents’ infection — but I’m intrigued. I want more. Gods
help me.
You may, too, find the Residents to be something worth checking
out. Darned if I know. But aren’t you just a little curious
now?
