 | |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 | |
 | |
 | |
 | |
 | |
 | |
 | |
 | |
 | |
 | |
 | |
 | |
 | |
 | |
 | |
 | |
stone gossard: bayleaf
BY DAVE LONGSTRETH
In defense of Stone Gossard's debut solo effort, Bayleaf, it certainly defied my expectations. If the first solo albums of other lead-guitarists-in-famous-rock-bands are any precedent (Gossard is in Pearl Jam), the album was guaranteed to be a wank-fest of arena-sized proportions, with instrumental showboating, recycled blues riffs, and a general disinterest in songwriting and recording. From his tasteless soloing in Pearl Jam, it seemed fair to assume that Gossard was yet another pedant of the institution of Rock—one who might, in a moment of fevered inspiration and unselfconscious glory, strike the guitar-as-extension-of-penis pose (tongue out). This is not the case.
|
To his credit, Gossard seems genuinely interested in songwriting, instrument texturing, and technology as an expressive tool. He reveals his penchant for Neil Young, to whose faltering falsetto he owes much. Radiohead's influence also seems to find its way into this album via the occasional backward synth or oversaturated drum sample. Here, though, these technological elements don't transcend their own novelty. They join a chorus of overproduction that includes awkward phasing guitars, distracting backing vocals, and out-of-place congas.
Still, what's most surprising about this album is how weakly it rocks. Instead of machismo and self-mythologization, the overriding ethos of Bayleaf is pretentious sobriety. I'm the first to defend rock as a serious expressive form, but Gossard's wispy reflections smack of pretense. He seems most himself singing things like "My love oh she's a Cadillac." Bayleaf is a Big Rock album that is too ashamed to be a Big Rock album. The exuberance of Rock, embodied in the lead singer prancing around in purple tights, is what in the end redeemed rock bands like Def Leppard. Here it has been discarded for a more grandiose, self-conscious aesthetic. The result is boring and disarmingly bland—but what else could we expect from this age of ironic paralysis? The glory of Rock has gone subterranean. Radiohead is Def Leppard in disguise, trading big hair and triumphant (if vacuous) anthems for highfalutin ideologies and an equally affected posturing. In this climate, a lesser artist than Radiohead (re-enter Gossard) is even more abashed to lay his proverbial B's upon the T. It's OK though; it doesn't seem like Stone has much to say anyway. (Epic)
All materials © 2001 The Yale Herald, Inc., and its staff.
Got any questions, comments, or advice? Email the online editors at
online@yaleherald.com.
Like to join us?