Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Titus Andronicus, "The Monitor"

In the last few years, my music taste has taken a decided turn toward full-blown 30something white-dudeism. Basically, I’ve been listening mostly (as in 65 percent of the time) to singer-songwriters and bands rooted in the traditions of folk, country, blues, R&B, and early rock ‘n’ roll. In a musical sense, I’ve taken to wearing those jackets with the patches on the elbows. So I’ve been pleasantly surprised by the fact that, in the one-zero, I’ve been falling hard for scrappy, sloppy guitar bands again. (You know, the soundtrack of full-blown 20something white-dudeism.) Call it a one-third life crisis, or perhaps just a shift in what’s interesting for followers of 21st century folk music made by electrified stringed instruments. But things are finally rocking again on my record player.

Along with Harlem and my beloved Soft Pack, one of my favorite albums of the new year is The Monitor by New Jersey’s Titus Andronicus. My AVC colleague Erik Adams did a fine job summing up the record here—I’ll sign off on everything he says, including the grade, though I might have edged it up to an A- because I’m a sucker for art with eyes too big for its stomach. The Monitor has flaws aplenty, chief of which are 1) every song going on and on for eight minutes, which, c’mon, is too damn long and 2) Patrick Stickles’ histrionic, Peter Brady-esque off-key vocals. Oh, and it’s also about the Civil War or some bullshit. (On the scale of Ken Burns’ documentary subjects, only the history of American national parks is a less fitting concept for a rock record.)

But even if it’s unwieldy and difficult to digest, The Monitor is often genuinely thrilling, thoroughly sweeping, and legitimately epic, treating the blood-soaked battlefields of Lincoln’s time with the crumbling empire of Obama’s as parallel realities occurring simulataneously in the present. It’s also possible that the songs are just about getting fucked up every night in Jersey. (It’s hard to get through all of The Monitor in one sitting, which jumbles the plot a bit.) “The enemy is everywhere,” a chorus sings—or shouts, rather—at one point, and it’s not exactly fearful. The enemy might be the only thing left that ties us to the past. Like Julia Roberts, we sleep with it.

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