Youth counselors sure have a run for their money nowadays. For that matter, so do selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors, sulking walks in the rain, and nights drowning in three dollar bottles of Livingston merlot. For every tortured soul in peril, there is a sweet-voiced lead singer fronting a mid-tempo, reflectively sensitive band that understands and is always willing to coo them towards resolution. Hell, these days even those Good Charlotte snot kids are talking teens down from the ledge (I know this only because I tuned in five minutes too early to catch Quddus interview that cute Gilmore Girl, of course). I can't quite pinpoint when we all got so sad nor can I say the reason for it *cough* Oberst *cough*, but reasons aside, we seem to be awash in a fresh tide of quasi therapists with major label deals and they don't seem to be diminishing due to overkill or indifference; so we may as well just accept defeat and embrace the utter despair that envelopes each of us.
But don't worry, my friend, Marjorie Fair feels your pain. The title of the debut album from this Los Angeles five piece, Self Help Serenade, is really only half right. It is self help, that much is for sure, but serenades are meant to be pleasantly surprising, unexpected; serenades are meant to leave one longing for more. Marjorie Fair beats a dead horse and then devises a rope and pulley rigging to hoist the unfortunate equine and level you with it repeatedly. On the album opener, "Don't Believe," singer Evan Slamka laments, "It only feels this way/ that's what I tell myself," then proceeds to more or less harp on and around this notion for the course of the entire record. It is a shame too because musically, this is quite a lovely album. Moodily reverbed guitars and dense organs give way of their minor progressions to controlled chaotic textures of screaming pangs of harmonious calamities. They fit themselves nicely along with bands such as Coldplay and Travis in the Bends-era Radiohead camp.
Self Help Serenade is not an unpleasant listen; it has simply and unfortunately been played out over the years by scores of other bands. There are a couple tracks that shrug off the self-importance and urgency long enough to stand out above the self-examining, therapeutic miasma. "How Can You Laugh?" is quite a gorgeously infective number, and "Waves" actually shows signs of life and delivers with a crashing chorus that shows that the Fair certainly has the ability, if not the proclivity, to get out of bed once in a while and stop thinking so damn much about things. But, ultimately, the album collapses from its own gravity and too many of the songs sound achingly similar in their tone and catchword lyrical vagueness ("Please don't be afraid of what you're made of." "She was death and beauty at the same time."). I have no doubt that this record will probably change or save some despondent teen's life, that's the nature of things like this; but if you are looking for anything but a mirror for your sadness and a voice of resolve to go on despite it, I suggest Gilmore Gir..., I mean, look elsewhere.
1. Don't Believe
2. Halfway House
3. Stare
4. How Can You Laugh
5. Waves
6. Please Don't
7. Cracks In The Wall
8. Stand In The World
9. Hold On To You
10. Silver Gun
11. My Sun Is Setting Over Her Magic
More about: Marjorie Fair
