Rush – Hemispheres
Rush has been together for almost 40 years, and though mainstream success has by and large eluded them — save for a string of modestly popular albums in the early 80s — they have inspired a devoted following made up of people who are fond of irregular time signatures, calculated guitar solos and science fiction-inspired lyrics.
I am not one of these fans: I respect them and acknowledge their existence, but I observe them in the same way I might observe a Norwegian soap opera sans subtitles.
It’s hard to deny Rush’s technical ability — Neil Peart’s drumming, especially, is surely among the most creative of the rock and roll canon — but Hemispheres, often considered a high water mark of the band’s lengthy career, does nothing for me.
The album opens with “Cygnus X-1: Book II,” a musical suite which spans 18 minutes and recounts the story of a deity looking to reconcile a populace divided into two separate hemispheres — a Cold War parable? Lead vocalist and bassist Geddy Lee’s irritating wail does little to lend weight to Peart’s lofty lyrics.
“Circumstances” and “The Trees” are similarly uninspiring — the latter track seems trapped between self-parody and straight-faced conviction, whereas the former’s homesick balladry is undercut by a repetitive chorus and a corny keyboard interlude.
Closing track “La Villa Strangiato,” which stands as the trio’s first instrumental, is unequivocally Hemisphere’s finest moment, though this may be because Geddy Lee does not sing. In any case, the song’s stream-of-consciousness format quickly becomes tiresome, and the album’s remarkably short runtime — only 36 minutes, unheard of for a prog rock album — came as a happy surprise.
Ultimately, it comes as little surprise that the group’s next album, Permanent Waves, completely abandoned expansive musical suites and strived towards more economic, structural songs. Hemispheres ultimately strikes me as a failed experiment, albeit a noble one. At least “Spirit of the Radio” is pretty good.
Fiona Apple – When the Pawn…
Though its album title is novelistic and its subject matter occasionally maudlin, Fiona Apple’s sophomore LP is full of brilliant musicality, gorgeous vocals and lyrics that are equal parts sympathetic and self-deprecating.
Coming off the heels of her immensely popular debut Tidal, When the Pawn… effectively ups the ante: the songs on this record simply sound better, due in no small part to studio wizard Jon Brion, whose lush production and theatrical string arrangements complement Apple’s raw, unhinged vocal.
Her singing, which has always been her strong suit, befits her creative songwriting: the Burlesque snarl of “On the Bound” and the syncopated hip-hop beats of “Fast As You Can” only serve to highlight Apple’s uniquely impressive chops.
Apple’s lyrics matured along with her music: she yearns for casual spontaneity in “A Mistake”, casts a weary eye on conventional romance in “The Way Things Are” and performs autopsy on a broken affair in “Love Ridden.”
Though I tend to lean towards Apple’s sparser efforts — namely her most recent LP, The Idler Wheel… — the opulent orchestration on tracks like “Get Gone” is playful enough to stave off accusations of melodrama.
Even the album’s catchiest numbers, like “To Your Love” and “Paper Bag,” are given balance by grace of Apple’s acidic wordplay and charisma.
The biggest triumph of Apple’s tunes is that each one is wide open, leaving the listener to pick them apart and interpret each sentence. Lines like “Maybe some faith would do me good” might sound sarcastic or sincere on any given listen, and her music is all the more relatable for it.
When the Pawn… is a complex and ambitious album, but it’s also inviting and unpretentious, tailor-made for sufferers of the human condition with just enough flair to assure Apple a consistent fan base for decades to come.
The Beatles – Rubber Soul
Sandwiched in between The Beatles as teen heartthrobs and The Beatles as serious musicians is Rubber Soul. This LP is full of firsts: first marijuana-inspired songwriting session (courtesy of Bob Dylan), first instance of George’s long love affair with the sitar, and the first time that the group retained complete artistic control in the studio.
The results are predictably rewarding. The songs on Rubber Soul flirt with psychedelia, R&B and chamber pop. Some of them are among the group’s best contributions ever, especially John’s: the gentle, nostalgic “In My Life” is about the closest he’d ever verge towards sentimentality, and the mature anti-love story of the Dylan-inspired “Norwegian Wood” silences any lingering whispers of hand-holding or she-loves-yous.
Paul’s contributions are less notable, albeit far from unremarkable. “You Won’t See Me” boasts an industrial-strength hook, and album opener “Drive My Car” is bouncy and lovable. George, on the other hand, has a chip on his shoulder: “Think For Yourself” is downright cruel, and “If I Needed Someone” does little to soothe the burn.
Still, Rubber Soul may be the most overrated entry in the Fab Four’s canon. Paul’s faux-Français “Michelle” is sappy, and John’s “Girl” is overly similar; elsewhere, John’s “Run For Your Life” is easily the quartet’s most misogynistic number, and Ringo’s performance on “What Goes On” is, well, about as good as any of his other lead vocals.
As a checkpoint in The Beatles’ discography, Rubber Soul may be the most important: nothing would be the same afterward, and nothing had sounded quite like this before. But with the shadow of Revolver and Abbey Road looming in the horizon, it’s hard not to see Rubber Soul as more of a stepping stone than a milestone.
