The line between music fan and general pop-culture nerd- long gaunt to the point of litheness- for myself, at least- is about to fall of starvation, fed, so to speak, by the return of Superman to theaters and Dylan to the studio. I’ve always given the masses the skinny from an insufferable (often unreadable) dork’s POV, but never with this much TLC- never quite like this. I’m talking about a balls-to-the-wall epic fashion famine - a dork-a-thon- an utter emaciation of respectfulness- a malnourishment of reason and common sense- I’m wasting away here. Kids in South Sudan ain’t got nothing on me!
…
(Background)
When first they met, Superman and Batman were patrolling Gotham in search of Magpie, a kleptomaniac femme-fatale with her eyes on the prize. I’ll be Batman, you can be Superman. My costume is cooler, but you can fly, so no whining. I’ll keep an eye out for Kryptonite, you make sure no one’s pointing and laughing at my package- and no, it’s not a stuffed, I swear. I don’t even own socks- I’m sock-less.
Ok, about Magpie; a villain of minor-comic note; a Stephen Fretwell album of recent re-release- each pursuant of what is seemingly not theirs- riches, stardom and folk-glory - a couple of tricky cats- that’s what we’re after. To the Batmobile! - No, you can’t drive! You’re not even from this planet!
…
We’ve seen the act before- it’s rampant in Gotham, no less; the set, the hair, the made-down expression: the twenty-something with a roughly-tuned six-string (and a marathon ego of dubious origin) who watched “Don’t Look Back” every Thursday until mastering minor chords in preparation for a Friday open-mic night debut and his attached fate as the spokesman for his A.D.D. generation. There’s no talking-blues-songs this time around, no bedside hospital visits, and the kids seem to be saying “shit” and “fuck” a lot more, but when you crack the fronts and examine the offerings, everyone’s still trying to be Dylan in their own “fucked-up” way. Here’s how the “shit” drops, pay attention:
(Looking over the file on Stephen Fretwell, possible Magpie- and “Magpie,” a possible confession.) He sits down for a cover shoot, 40-years outside of Dylan’s door, in a scene seemingly projected through a reversed peephole (reminiscent of a Seinfeld plotline) by Bob’s extraordinary sight. A lifeless dark-haired raven to his rear, the quasi-hero is seated before a mantle within a cluttered den whose surrounding art tells of history as readily as the Projector’s told of current events. Fretwell waits for the flash. With Time Magazine now an effigy concealing her porcelain bust, and a suit of armor playing the fallout shelter for 21st century birds, he sits like influence’s reflection: head cocked under hair, curly and feathered, eyes focused on the cruel peephole-world with the aloof glare patented by his muse that suggests a consideration of the vast and trivial alike; a blank distance of face that almost freezes on-listeners-and-lookers as they wait to see and hear if his next question will be “what becomes of will when one meddles with consciousness,” or “who farted?”Do you like wearing tights? Right. Yeah. No, I mean…me neither.
(Leaving for the UK)
You got the scene? From the outside, Magpie just a knock-off Bringing it all Back Home- pulled right through the looking glass. Fretwell, a self-confessed disciple of Dylan, is the next in a line of new nexts trying to be the old prophet- or so it would seem. In face alone, he looks more like a Ritalin-run self-made déjà vu of his master than a preja vu projection, but you’re innocent here until proven you’re guilty or found covering “Like A Rolling Stone” at a studio showcase.
So, what do you think? Is this Brit’s Magpie the thief we’re looking for? Moreover, does he have what it takes? Is he packing a vast meditation on existence or mere deliberations on flatulence? Let’s sniff out the smell- you can’t judge a Dylan by his cover, lest you ditch the brilliant Blonde on Blonde (with its close-up of what, at a glance, could easily be mistaken for Horshack from Welcome Back Kotter fame) in favor of the tale-telling memory-painting of the half-assed Self-Portrait.
How’s Lois?
Good..
No, I’m not seeing anyone at the moment- been busy… Giuliani’s not in office anymore.
No. Robin’s just a friend.
Honestly.
Don’t look at me like that!
So, we agree that this Fretwell kid seems to have the chops, but who in coffeeshops doesn’t? He seems to have the drive, but so do most mailroom versions of Slowhand as they rubber-band demos to outgoing Fedex deliveries. There’s plenty of talent out there, but only so many audience members, and no amount of chops or drive; java or rubber bands makes for a guarantee. Anyone who’s ever fallen on his or her ass in boots and/or tried to win over a loud coffeehouse crowd with a quiet acoustic number knows that pulling yourself up by your bootstraps is easier said than done and that a double shot of espresso can make even a party of vow-eyed monks yammer rudely through a set by Jesus, himself. In the end, no matter who you are, (or who your dad is, as the case may be) it’s almost impossible to “make it,” qualified or not. Success, these days, need to be stolen more by chance than merit, it seems. Still, Fretwell’s no thief, in the end, and instead the beneficiary of hard work, whose self-assisted-and-meakly-released “big break” is of the rare, warranted breed, in the opinion of this hero.
(Outside of Fretwell’s Manchester flat.)
But that doesn’t clear Magpie’s name? There’s a lot of Bob in there- beyond the tight production and meandering tone- deep in the brooding mood and nasal-reliance… Sure, there’s also a wallowing flow and young martyr stream-of-symphonic-melancholy-consciousness consistent with Jeff Buckley, to whose tribute Fretwell recently contributed, but that only makes Magpie a repeat offender, not a upstanding citizen. Pile it on, why don’t we: the folky Welsh landscape of a pre-Babylon David Gray, the jumpy-depression and rainy Irish cynicism of Damien Rice’s “O” - the black-eyed British crow-croon of David Ford’s newest run around sad, drunk balladry. Somewhere therein, after dashes of the aforementioned King and Prince of “I’ll do it my way, even if it kills me” counter-folk stardom, lies a thief.
Get him.
Bam.
Boom.
Stop looking at my crotch!
Pow!
You’re coming with us!
(Interrogation)
-On a course of constant travel, be it to a potty-mouthed New York or the whispers of an abandoned European beach, Magpie never stagnates, claims Stephen, playing it for our Heroes.) By golly, he’s right!
(Apologizing to Stephen)
Chocked with self-deprecation and airs of contrasting behind-the-clouds escapism, Fretwell wobbles along this double-yellow LP like a patchy musical success story with the charm of a sobriety-test failure who just won’t give up. Whether laying breath-y stones early on Do You Want to Come With or mulling over a Little Girl’s deed- right on down to the closing drifts that ride over patient guitar currents, barely-there accents, fluctuating harmonica toots and an ivory hop or two through Lines, Play and the box-car jangle-jam/uneasy-ode Brother, Fretwell paints a calm success from top to bottom- proving multi-faceted and well beyond what one expects from a hobnobbing Bob-robber- hued both bright and black, with one eye always on intention and one ear locked respectfully upon his muse.
We were wrong, his Magpie isn’t a thief- it borrows license only upon its cover.
We’re sorry. I like your hair.
(Heading Home)
If art can be art’s lone failure, such is the case here. A “Sergeant Pepper” shot that should have been stripped to a “White Album,” gloss, Magpie is a hindsighted post-Dylan affair, no doubt- the identifying airs apparent- but moreover, its a largely ambitious party whose guest-list influence announces itself, but mingles nicely with other attendees. Forward-facing, above occasional fuck-and-shit short-comings in song-writing and flat melody, the case against Magpie should be dropped with the recommendation that it under-go packaging reform and be fitted with art void of any link that will lead potential fans to bypass the disc, lost in a false Nostradmaus disaster reflection mode as they mutter “not another Dylan!” |