Among Magnetic Fields albums, this one is often cited as the runt of the litter. Many seem wary toward the lo-fi electro that they're peddling on "Get Lost". It's also accused of lacking the emotional sensitivity of the laid-back, alt-country "Charm of the Highway Strip". Or that it lacks the perfect pop sparkle of "Holiday". I'm not sure I'd strongly disagree with those last two statements, but I do think that the album's electronic bent tends to alienate the people who praise those albums so highly. "Get Lost" is full of metronomic rhythms; droning, distorted bass tones; and tremendously repetitive three-chord mantras that aren't too different from something you'd hear on Stereolab's "Peng". "69 Love Songs" had similar Velvet-y garage-rock moments ("Yeah! Oh Yeah!", "Meaningless", "When My Boy Walks Down the Street") but those are just a few examples among 69 -- most Magnetic fields fans wouldn't want to hear an entire album of songs like that, augmented by drum machines and with the distortion meter cranked up even higher.
Which is where I come in ... here's a record of three-chord minimalism; shimmering, lo-fi guitar fuzz, motorik rhythms, along with Stephin Merritt's baritone and his moaning tales of lost love and depression. Whoa, that's my dream album!
Famous. And the album leaps to life with a mesmerizing, propulsive drum beat. Three chords and this simple drum pattern are looped into a hazy, lo-fi infinity in a manner that Stereolab haven't achieved since "Laisser-Faire". Didn't think you could pogo around your house to The Magnetic Fields? Guess again. The lyric is a simple "please let me escape my hometown" plea, and is essentially a more optimistic version of "Smalltown", the overture to Reed & Cale's "Songs For Drella". Of course, Reed and Cale haven't boogied like this since "Sister Ray". It can only go downhill from here.
The Desperate Things You Made Me Do. The drum machine plays a straightforward disco loop, and Merritt sings a funny/sad song about wishing great pain on an ex-lover. Kind of like the Pet Shop Boys with banjos, but unfortunately, not nearly as good as the Pet Shop Boys with banjos would actually be.
Smoke and Mirrors. Not a great tune, but like everything else on this album, it just SOUNDS so wonderful. A dinky synth melody that would be right at home on Kraftwerk's "Radioactivity" album blends with a speaker-rattling electronic bass line to produce a swoonsome, pastoral song.
With Whom To Dance?. This is the sort of lyric that Merritt pulls off better than just about anyone else. It's a "Love and marriage isn't in the cards for me ..." song, and you'd expect the rest of that line to be "... so I'm resigned to being lonely forever" or "... so I'm gonna fuck anything that moves and ruin my life under the weight of its own hedonism". Except what Merritt actually gives us is "Love and marriage isn't in the cards for me, but what I really want is romance. I wanna dance with somebody". It's a bit paradoxical. When hearing this lone guitar strumming a heartmelting lullaby it's difficult, at first, to imagine this being anything but a sincere love song. It's kind of too bad -- it would have fit in wonderfully on the indie wedding party and serenading circuit.
You and Me and the Moon. More fast-paced disco goodness with the sort of videogame melodies that went out of style around of the time of Pac-Man. In 1983, this would have made great music for rollerskating birthday parties. Most wonderful melodic achievement in the song: stretching the word "moon" into eleven syllables.
Don't Look Away. This is one of those songs that ordinary Magnetic Fields fans (who are "Get Lost" hataz) would single out in order to pay a few compliments to this album. They'd say something like "it's one of Merritt's most effective ballads from this phase of his career". I think it's the weakest track on the album.
Save a Secret For the Moon. This is probably the closest this band will ever come to making a classic house track. Perfect tempo, sequencers pulsing beneath the hum of female voices, rave sirens, and restrained verses slinking into an anthemic chorus. Majestic.
Why I Cry. See comment for "Don't Look Away". Except this one's really quite good. Also, this is one of only two songs here that I can imagine fitting in with the sound and style of "69 Love Songs". The other is "When You're Old and Lonely".
Love Is Lighter Than Air. There is probably a really lovely ballad lurking under this song's electronic sheen. Much like "Smoke and Mirrors", its humming bass sounds magnificent, albeit partially obscuring a jangly Byrds-esque tune.
When You're Old and Lonely. This sparse, solo guitar ballad instantly recalls the solemn mood of about a dozen Drugstore ballads, and I can't get enough of those so this song is an easy thumbs up for me. And unlike the title suggests, this isn't a "let's grow old together" song, it's a "when you grow old and lonely then I'll be sure to call and laugh at you" song. Isobel Monteiro would be proud. She got to fantasize about cackling at her former lovers from beyond the grave in "The Funeral", but that was far more lighthearted than this. She also got to wish harm on her most recent ex in "I Know I Could". But Merritt's got her beat cleanly in both cases -- he's nailed the bitterness of "I Know I Could", but laughing at the old and helpless is far more cruel than laughing at the young and inconsiderate.
Village In the Morning. The tempo quickens into a harsh, organ-choked rocker and it remains thick and murky throughout. It would be the most powerful wall of sound on the album if not for ...
All the Umbrellas In London. The army of shimmering guitars is a jaw-dropping marvel. Everything else would be gravy after that. But the song has a lot more than just gravy, it's got a devastating tale of hurt and disorientation, twinkly glockenspiel solos, and an infectiously danceable beat.
The Dreaming Moon. Another three-chord mantra -- this album is bookended by them. Compared to "Famous", this one is more relaxed in tempo and the pacing of the vocals. But in both cases, the actual words are rather superfluous, as the song metronomically drives itself forward and deserves to last longer than it's far too short three-and-a-half minutes. "The Dreaming Moon" could go on for an hour. I know this because if you strip away the percussion, voice, and guitar then you're left with a drifting, haunting melody that's nearly indistinguishable from much of William Basinski's "The Disintegration Loops". It's a captivating finish to this underappreciated marvel of an album.
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