The Real Tuesday Weld -- so named because the original ‘Tuesday Weld’ moniker drew a lawsuit -- make music for films that don't exist, but their oeuvre extends beyond simple soundtrack accompaniment; these are living, breathing creations that paint vivid pictures of characters you mostly have to dream up on your own. This reviewer's first exposure to the Weld came with I, Lucifer, a canny exercise in collage-style samplery that seemed too obsessed with its eccentricities to round out as a prime-time full-length effort. But it put a bee in my bonnet, and sometimes that's all it takes to summon my interest.
I heard The Return of the Clerkenwell Kid next, and for the life of me I can't remember a goddamn shred of a detail. I feel this is a common reaction to the music of Stephen Coates, The Real Tuesday Weld's principal member. Entering into his world is akin to diving into a rabbit hole you can't find your way out of, and once you've found your way back to society you can't remember how you found the hole in the first place.
Seeing as Coates' latest is configured to play out like a stage performance, complete with crowd noise between tunes, I've decided to help you figure out if you want to see/hear The End of the World. I've listed a few songs -- nay, Movements -- and the images/etc. that come to mind when I soak them up:
- "I'll See You in My Dreams": This goofy little number starts us off in style, balladeering like a lounge version of "Goodnight Irene" (which of course contains this song's title in its lyrics). I see a fancy-schmancy nightclub with a giant stage, a jazz combo untethering a smooth flute jam and fancy suits with flowers pinned to their lapels listening on in the audience.
- "Epitaph for a Dream": Another casual, plodding tune with that distinctive Coates-thinks-he's-on-Broadway-not-in-indie-world feel. But things get chaotic for a second, foreshadowing the unpredictability to come. The same audience from the previous track sits rapt at attention, but another shuffle-esque dittie or two and they could start throwing tomatoes or easing long wooden hooks around unsuspecting necks. Guess we'll see what happens...
- "What it Takes": The audience, again, appreciates the beautiful ballad, but is hoping for more action.
- "Nightingales": Realizing this is going to be a subdued performance no matter how hard they sulk, the audience settles in and tries to appreciate the sultry sight in front of them (and it's not too hard): A classic hard-bitten old-school dame, singing like only a classic, hard-bitten, old-school dame can. She's telling them they're going to "lose themselves ... in twilight dreams" and "forget what you've become," but the guys are too busy fawning over the flame onstage while their wives fume just as loudly next to them. Her cooing is so soft you can hear whispers floating through the club like the gray-white ribbons of smoke (after all, it's the 1920s and you can puff away indoors), but no one is straining to take her in; it's impossible to avoid her.
- "Valentines": This appears to be the closing number, and many are disappointed. The lounge-singing, thought to be merely an element of today's performance, has turned out to be the crux of the act. The crowd dutifully sits through "Valentines," but many are glancing at their watches. Is this the mad sampler they've all heard about? Couldn't be .
In the end, the spectators seem at odds with what just happened without quite being nudged into anger. Sounds about right...
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