Word: lyrically
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...tree") and Love for Sale ("Love for sale/ Advertising young love for sale") back to back to back--all that's missing is "Isn't it rich?/ Are we a pair?" But thanks to his own smart arrangements, a supple baritone and a natural way with a lyric, Smith runs these gauntlets admirably. On Misty his crooning, wordless intro finally touches down on the verse like a glider wafting back to earth--he's landed before we even know it, and that's only the start of the ride...
...mostly promising start, though, Weiland's album is spottier than a leopard-skin fur coat. None of the songs outright suck, but the album's second half is too little musical creativity spread over too much time. "Cool Kiss" and "The Date" combine blinding flashes of white noise with lyrics ("Keep your hands up off of my lips / Capsize just like a tanker / Kill Kill Piss Piss") that are an amateur Freudian's wet dream. "Son" is a gently motoring ode to Weiland's new son, a la "Kooks" off Hunky Dory. "Jimmy Was a Stimulator" is a pleasant piece...
Stage movements added little to Unwound's already dry personality. Rumsey would occasionally break from his steady position for a gulp of beer. Trosper would often wince or bob up and down while emoting over some random, nonsensical lyric. Even drummer Sara Lund's top-heavy noggin kept her head perpetually lopsided; combined with an empty, stunned gaze, Lund provided quite the unsettling image...
Hughes' account of this shared history and Plath's ruinous effect on it may or may not be accurate--and only a fool would attempt to parse another person's marriage--but it makes a poor premise for poetry. Lyric poems draw their energy from an active voice discussing the life choices, good or bad, it has made. Hughes portrays himself as a fern in a hurricane beyond his control. He gives only one poem, Dreamers, to the woman who broke up his marriage to Plath. In it he writes: "The Fable she carried/ Requisitioned...
...once defended the right of football players at Jerry Falwell's Liberty University to pray in the end zone following touchdowns. Finally, and perhaps most damningly, the institute's director, John Whitehead, displays in his office a portrait of Bob Dylan. That's right, Bob Dylan, author of this lyric (from It's Alright Ma, I'm Only Bleeding): "But even the President of the United States/Sometimes must have to stand naked...