This could be the least consequential review I ever write. The ever-loving Pavement apostolate has already blissed out over Matador’s pre-order download, and no one who’s just tuning into the Malkman now is going to start by picking up this album. And surely the main guy himself couldn’t care less what TMT or anyone else has to say about his latest. He’s triangulated the perfect coordinates for success in the cred-confused indie landscape of digitally dubious profits: an appeal and fanbase wide enough to ensure him independent financial success, an unassailable reputation, and the artistic license to do exactly and absolutely what he wants all of the time, secure in the knowledge that all will be lapped up eagerly. Far be it from this fan boy to crowd the trough.
Even if you don’t accept that Malkmus’ post-Pavement career has followed an upward incline from bummer to better (I really liked Pig Lib, which seems confounding to some), Trash is still definitely a step down from Face the Truth. Luckily, that’s hardly disastrous, even if it is kind of frustrating. Both of these two recent records get back to the unpredictable vibe of Wowee Zowee, and the best parts of Brighten the Corners. While Trash is heavier on the “stoned digressions” (which Malkmus sings about to open the album) than the zany pay-offs, it’s definitely still better than retreading the adult-contempo zone that Terror Twilight and his first solo joint dangerously flirted with.
“Dragonfly Pie” opens in trademark fashion with the clanging, treble-kicked rhythm guitars and fuzzy woozy spaghetti string leads Stevie’s been employing since “Rattled by the Rush,” if not “Silent Kit.” Citing the latter jam is misleading, though: this album’s got equivalent pop weirdness in spades, but only 75% of the hooks and none of the concision. I wish every song on Trash was one minute shorter. Yeah, even the 2:54 “Gardenia.” You can’t fault a musician for wanting to stretch out a little and flex his chops, especially after a decade of having them denied by terms like “lo-fi” and “slack,” and ex-Sleater-Kinney drummer Janet Weiss has now given the Jicks their solidest-ever foundation to do so.
But even when the album gets really flaccid, as in the clattering breakdown of the turgid story-song “Hopscotch Willie,” Malkmus is still annoyingly good at writing stuck-in-your-dome-piece melodies that keep you humming the tunes you don’t like just as much as the highlights. And the highs are high, especially “Cold Son,” “Out of Reaches,” and “We Can’t Help You,” which are right up there with any of his best stuff this decade. The vibe is just as summery as Pavement’s most satisfying latter-day songcraft, and a lot tighter. Trash is definitely an album by a guy easing himself on a comfortable bed of laurels, but that guy is so damn clever that even his laziest licks and verses are pretty fun (and this is a man who’s been a poster boy for laziness, however unfairly, for years). Somewhat surprisingly, Trash’s renewed indulgences in goofy, character-driven story songs and loopy jams, not to mention the thick organ and piano backings on a lot of these songs, recalls a very different set of ‘90s underachiever icons better known for the patchouli stench of their camp-followers and goo balls in the arena parking lots.
You can split the hairs between “psychedelic” and “jammy” all you want (What draws that line, anyway? Melody? Fidelity?) and debate the critical merits of acid-prog or whatever till the cows come home, but Real Emotional Trash still sounds kind of like Phish. That’s not as incongruous (or as horrifying) as it first seems, if you make it past the instant stigma. In a musical climate that’s seen the restoration of monarchs from King Crimson to Queen while Yes suddenly isn’t considered so embarrassing anymore, could it be time for a reappraisal? And hey, at least it doesn’t sound like a Trey Anastasio solo album.