Album Reviews

Maybe it's the fact that it's early Saturday morning and I've just woken up on the couch with an endless sea of empty beer bottles in front of me on the coffee table that's got me to thinking. I mean, it seemed like a perfectly good idea at the time: drink as many beers as I possibly could in one night while listening to Tanglewood Numbers repeatedly in an attempt to get into the notoriously alcohol-soaked mind space of leader David Berman. After all, I'm always up for a scientifically based experiment, and considering I was using one of the great thinkers of our time, Neil Young, as my model, I figured nothing could go wrong.

You know the story, I'm sure. After the untimely deaths of both recently fired Crazy Horse guitarist Danny Whitten, and roadie Bruce Berry- who were the catalyst for the Tonight's The Night album, Young decided the best way to honor and evoke the spirit of the two was to lay down the tracks only after downing copious amounts of tequila and herb. Considering its classic status some thirty years on, Young's scientific method can hardly be ignored.

Yet despite solid planning, I just feel sick.My back hurts, I'm seriously dehydrated and most of all I'm depressed. Depressed mostly by this latest Silver Jews album that is really not that depressing in the sense that it's Berman's most rocking release since he set the indie world alight in '98 with American Water. For those unfamiliar, Silver Jews is really just Berman with a revolving cast of characters that has included enough members of Pavement that many still think of the Jews as a Pavement side project.They're not, although this one does reunites Berman with Stephen Malkmus and Bob Nastanovich. Will Oldham lends a hand too, as well as a long list of alterna-rockers, including Mike Fellows, Brian Kotzur, and Berman’s wife Cassie; who sings beautifully alongside her husband throughout. So you see, the guy has got some serious indie street cred, as well as a serious drinking problem.

After hearing all the reports of a breakdown, rehab, and a failed suicide attempt,I was surprised to find the album cover featuring a photo of a bar from the perspective of someone sitting as close to the booze as possible. Not a good sign.Playing the first track, you are then greeted by the words, "Where’s the paper bag that holds the liquor? Just in case I feel the need to puke". Definitely a bad sign.

Again, for the first timer, this is a perfectly good album that rocks with a steady beat behind some fantastic lyrics. It's just that knowing what I know, and knowing that Berman seems to wear alcoholism as some sort of badge of honor on every album, I can't help but feel ashamed every time I play it.Am I, as just a casual fan, partly responsible for Berman's rocky decent?

The more I think about it, the more obvious it becomes-although a good solution eludes me. It seems that as much as we like our rock stars for the music, we are equally, if not more so, enthralled by their pain and suffering. It may just be morbid curiosity or some deep-rooted psychological need to confront our own mortality, but really, who hasn't slowed down at a traffic accident hoping to get a glimpse of some blood? In the world of rock, the rule seems to be the more tragic the figure, the better.

It's a crazy world where a drug overdose or asphyxiation from vomit is second only to that of the great rock 'n roll tragedy known as suicide.Even a cursory mind-check easily sputters out a well-known list of artist we know all too well. Joplin, Nick Drake, Hendrix, Bon Scott, and Morrison are all a little before my time, but there has to be a reason beyond the music—however good it was—why we hold them up as Rock Gods decades later.Is it that as much as we like our stars fucked-up, we like them even moredead?

The mere fact that we do hold them up as near mythic creatures may be sending the wrong message. Like I said, the above artists are before my time, yet within my generation there has been an equal amount of tragic figures that have attained iconic status only after full-blown addiction, suicide, or both. Now I'm not suggesting for one second that we, as fans,are directly responsible for these occurrences. That's absurd. But the more I think about how we indirectly influence their actions; I can't help but to feel a little guilty.

I mean, was there a fan of Layne Staley, Elliott Smith, or Kurt Cobain that didn't know how messed up on drugs they were, and that it was more than likely only a matter of time before they bit the rock 'n roll biscuit? I'm not saying we need to do some mass fan intervention every time we hear of musician who's battling addiction-that's not only cheesy, but naïve. Not mention futile, considering the person in question has to actually want to change. Yet, in our way, we want the tragedy; openly condoning these actions that have repercussions only truly felt when the casket is lowered or when Betty Ford becomes someone's permanent address.

Maybe it's the hangover talking, but it all just seems to be such a waste,and even though Berman has been to hell and back, Tanglewood Numbers still seems to be sending the message that something’s not right. Even Pete Townshend showed a philanthropist bent when he pulled together the troups for the Rainbow Concert to help get Clapton back on his feet after battling heroin addiction—and you know what, it worked. Sometimes somebody just needs to know that people care. So maybe a few e-mails telling your favorite messed-up rock star that you're worried about their well-being is the ticket. Like I said, I don't have the answers, just lots of questions.



The primary one being that of purpose. Berman has always had a way with a lyric, often confounding his admirers with cryptic couplets that often have (apparently) nothing to do with each other. Yet here, he’s telling, for the most part, very direct stories that if you care to follow, offer a rather pointed message. Yes, he talks a lot about liquor, feeling angry, confusion about love, questioning his existence, and as always, animal imagery runs through the set. Yet taken as a whole, and in sequence, you almost feel like he’s letting you know what it’s really like to hit rock bottom and come out the other side. There’s a definite sense of hope here, and by the closing song, “There Is A Place,” he’s repeating the line “I saw God’s shadow on the world…” a few times before letting it all out with “I could not love the world entire. There grew a desert in my mind. I took a hammer to it all. Like an insane medieval king.”



Maybe Berman’s purpose is to de-glamorize the addict myth by giving you the straight goods on how screwed-up that life is. He’s not preaching, and you have to listen to get it for sure, but it’s there—mostly in his tone, which is a lackadaisical drawl that sounds like Lou Reed on a bad night. Just like the movie “Trainspotting” made me never want to touch a needle, just the sound of this album is enough to keep me off the bottle.



Tanglewood Numbers is not some melancholic downer-fest. On the contrary, there’s a fervent rush to many of the songs, and whoever labeled these guys “lo-fi” needs their head checked. The production is excellent, and completely free of studio trickery like Pro-Tools and heavy compression, easily allowing you to enjoy every player, bum notes and all. It may not be the indie-alt-country masterpiece that was American Water, but it’s damn close…and that my friends is good enough for me, and hopefully good enough for you.