The logical antithesis of stadium rock is bedroom pop. Whereas the former is a brash and bare-chested beast, the latter thrives in a more modest, insular space. Forefathers of this smaller, less threatening animal are studio savants like Frank Zappa, and crooked warblers Nick Drake, and for future generations, the Magnetic Fields. The thrust behind the Fields is just such a hybrid of dabbler and lark - Stephin Merritt, a New York born synth/guitar rock enthusiast and critic and sound board noodler. Genius is a term so often dropped to check the mediocre, but in the case of Merritt it is apt, and just as the precocious in the modern pop set evoke Brian Wilson's name in praise today, tomorrow it will possibly be his. Stephin Hero.
Most commonly associated with The Magnetic Fields as its complete nexus, Merritt is a leader from the back row on The Wayward Bus more than he will be in later albums. Here the vocal charms are those of the cherubic Susan Anway. Merritt is left to sprinkle cellos and horns with his deft hand over the Brian Wilson-cum-Phil Spector pop rock confection that comprises the album's backbone. Anway's playfully plaintive vocals give lost lover doting to "When You Were My Baby" and "The Saddest Story Ever Told," songs that open the album and set the tone. Quite simple, all of the Fields songs are variations of the rock love and lost formula, but there's more charisma to them though, as often the sad eyed narrative is tinted with self-deprecating soul. In the end, there are 21 tiny song jewels in a band, closed with a crown piece "100,000 Fireflies" a simple chime and drum machine number where Anway (in her last performance with the band) feels like Petula Clark, a comparison made often, but not often with this conviction.
As the weather changes into the colder, more ponderous climes (the writing of this comes in late September) the effect of the Magnetic Fields is notably diminished -- although not alleviated. They are the musical equivalent of a summer's day - as the cover of The Wayward Bus implies, less in sync without at least the suggestion of a wistful picnic. Early in the catalog, before Merritt's massive, three album opus the band was an accessibly romantic outfit with a dallying eye for bliss and heaven. |