Fibronostalgia might just be the most Kowtow album title in the history of Popof.
Monsieur Popof, when not otherwise engaged as a connoisseur of the portmanteau pun, makes intense, witty, occasionally enigmatic music credited to his alter ego Kevin Kerr. The singer-songwriter-multi-instrumentalist crafts tunes that bridge the gap between avant-garde rock like the Velvet Underground and equally clever but less affected / more mainstream fare like The Kinks.
Across a dozen albums, Popof has addressed a range of social trends, ills, and personal idiosyncrasies. This time around, he delivers the third of a trilogy led off by 2020’s Action Figure and continued by 2023’s A Punk’s Garden Of Verse. Popof writes that the new album “delves into the notion that we are paralyzed by our past. That somehow the best years of our lives are behind us, and the only way forward is backward.” It’s a theme that emerges gradually, then emphatically.
Opener “Countdown In Bedlam” looms briefly before crashing into a gauzy approximation of garage rock, rough and groovy with a slightly hazy finish. There’s a sense of urgency and an edge of menace as our narrator circles something dangerous, drawing closer each time. Will his fascination lead to disaster?
Next up, the off-kilter “T-Rev” matches clean guitars with a greasier rhythm section while name dropping that crossword big-boss “tenebrous.” A moment later, Popof neatly encapsulates the idea of alienation: “The voices of my soundtrack shout / But you can’t see what I’m about.”
“Closer To Yesterday” is where we get to the album’s topic sentence: a strummy Classic Rock backing for a lyric that captures the essence of nostalgia: feeling closer to your past once it’s behind you. Then the chiming, stutter-stepping “Cutout Hazzbin” playfully compares our stuck-in-his past narrator to an over-the-hill album in the cut-out bin.
Popof unleashes his pent-up frustrations on “Ruin Everything,” rather Byrdsy psych-rock whose bent-yet-jangly guitars and gently menacing air offset a dark and angry lyric that’s delivered almost deadpan. The rather dirge-y and undeniably atmospheric “Populations Of The Heart” sketches a nightmare where our narrator is “shuffling in the dark / asking for a light / waiting for the film to start.” Popof appears to hit bottom on “Neon Grey,” a burnished, elegiac number that evolves into almost a hymn to regret and loss and the urge to look backward rather than forward.
With an ear for the cinematic, director Popof closes out the record with a pair of winners. First comes “Spray Paint On Ivy,” a bright and playful instrumental that has a cleansing feel and effect. Then the album closes with the bouncy, anthemic “People Are Alike All Over,” an optimistic finish that declares “It’s never too late / to know when you’re wrong.” (If only the screaming heads on cable TV and social media were capable of such self-reflection and humility.)
Another piece of interesting background appears in the album’s dedication: “For Uncle Walter”. Walter Kerr was a poet—a damned fine one from what I’ve seen—and clearly also an influence on his nephew’s work, which is full of lively wordplay. (Kerr the younger further notes that the titles of the songs “Countdown In Bedlam” and “Populations Of The Heart” were borrowed from Uncle Walter.)
Running a tight and taut 33 minutes, Fibronostalgia feels like medicine for the times we’re living through, a reminder that we’re too attached to both the past and our own egos, and that all of that energy is better spent on things like love and gratitude. “People come and go / and friends hang around / through the good and the bad / and I say thanks for that.” Indeed.
