30 century man
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I like the kitchen-sink kitsch of the Walker Brothers: "Love Her," "The Sun Ain't Gonna Shine Anymore," "Make It Easy On Yourself," et. al. The records have that mid-'60s Philips UK melodrama (like Dusty Springfield's more grandiose efforts), and Scott Walker's voice, all dark and plummy, is right in the pocket of these BrillBuilding-ish melodies.The documentary "Scott Walker 30 Century Man" would have us believe that the Walkers' short term as genuine pop idols was merely a set-up for a career of great adventure and achievement, that Scott went on to become an artiste of much significance. All the talking heads in the film, from Bowie to Radiohead, testify to his cryptic brilliance.It's a very entertaining film. The old clips are terrific, and Walker allowed limited access to the studio where he was making his latest opus (at one point, he directs the percussionist on the most impactful way to punch a slab of pork to get the sound he's after). He even granted the filmmaker a couple of hours of interview time.All right, then. But am I alone here in the opinion that from the time Scott got on the Jacques Brel train, his music became more and more self-indulgent and, often, laughable (when he asks, in the studio, for donkey noises, we are in Spinal Tap territory)? There is a school of thought that "difficult" music, from free-jazz to "Metal Machine Music" (Lou Reed was at the screening last night) is too complex for mere mortals to comprehend. But sometimes difficult is, well, just hard to listen to.When Scott sang Jimmy Webb, or Bacharach, or Tim Hardin, or even some of Brel, there was something compelling in his voice, "a deep shade of blue." And no other singer has made this journey from pop heartthrob to willful, avant-garde composer-artist. But I know I'll never play "Tilt" or "Climate of Hunter" again, ever, and the movie didn't convince me that I should.
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