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Stephen Malkmus: Stephen Malkmus
BY DANIEL SILK
A year and a half ago, Stephen Malkmus' former band Pavement headlined its final New York club date, the second night of the Matador Records 10th anniversary party. Even amidst the self-important banter that attends any record industry schmooze-fest, there was a buzz that only awaits the arrival of an icon—in its presence we are children, no matter how hot our dates. Upon taking the stage, Pavement immediately declared its primacy with a rendition of "Trigger Cut," from the 1991 indie breakthrough Slanted and Enchanted, that was at once poignant and searing. Then, a grand renunciation: Malkmus and his Stockton, Calif. bandmates launched into an hour-long rehearsal, aborting some songs before the first verse and weighing down classics like "Stop Breathing" with self-conscious cynicism. Blasphemy to the average adoring rock fan, but within Pavement's cult of reluctance, it served as evidence of the divine. And so I remember the evening as one remembers the wedding of a childhood friend: I felt old. Perhaps it was my sense that the band's story was at its last chapter, a premonition that might have tortured me years earlier but now left me cold and detached.
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Or maybe it was the adolescent character of the story itself, starring Malkmus as the obsessively unlikely pop idol. Every Pavement record struggled to integrate the effortless sophistication of the band's songs with its stylistic penchant for sloppiness. On Slanted and Enchanted and Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain (1994), the effect was that of a genial nine-year-old who, through his intuitive grasp of language, diverts attention from his undeveloped syntax. But by Terror Twilight (1999), Pavement had settled comfortably into underachievement, intentionally marring the beauty of "Spit on a Stranger" with unforgivable throwaways like "Platform Blues." The enlistment of Radiohead producer Nigel Godrich to modernize the band's sonic attack couldn't hide the fact that Pavement had gone from a band coming of age to a band too cool, or too afraid, to grow up.
From the California-cool image staring out of Stephen Malkmus' cover, one might think the once-aloof frontman had left his old band's oblique ways behind. Such notions are dispelled in short order by the opening track, "Black Book," a riff-heavy bore whose elaborate intro promises way more than its inane chorus can deliver: "The black book you took was permanently diversified." SM picks up after that, though. Malkmus' new band, the Jicks, play along well enough with his songwriting quirks, keeping clever time while the solo section of "Jo Jo's Jacket" falls apart and then recovers itself. "Discretion Grove" rocks with power-chording authority, but the Jicks tastefully steer the song clear of overdriven excess.
Nothing on SM sounds too different from Pavement, which is largely due to the Jicks' fluency in Malkmus' musical tongue. If only for the blessed absence of Pavement's irritating novelty act, Bob Nasta-novich, the Jicks avoid sounding terribly impressed with their own wackiness. The most striking void on SM, though, owes to Malkmus' own axe work, which pales beside that of former Pavement lead guitarist Spiral Stairs. Malkmus has always been a smart rhythm player, but he often fails to find the musical punch line that gives a song its own charming wrinkle. Consequently, "Church on White" begins promisingly before degenerating into raw sap, and one wishes "Black Book" hadn't begun at all.
To be fair, such moments are the weakest on a fine record. Whether or not Malkmus is ready for stardom, SM proves he can look his fans in the eye. (Matador) —Daniel Silk
All materials © 2001 The Yale Herald, Inc., and its staff.
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