Review Summary: Are we all alone? I'd like to hope not
Many esteemed bands and musical artists label their fourth album
Four, as if to marvel at the fact that they have tolerated each other - and themselves - enough to reach a fourth body of work regardless of quality. Esteemed academic source Wikipedia cites at least 20 albums named
Four, by artists including but not limited to: Beyoncé. Foreigner. Bloc Party. The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus. Blues Traveler. One Direction. Stone Temple Pilots (technically that's
No. 4 but we’ll let it slide). ODE Willie’s Funky Bunch hardly have a plethora of virtuosic harmonica solos, or sweeping boy band fringes, or metric dickloads of disposable celebrity income, yet they have made it to
Quatro (or
Spanish Four, as the kids say) all the same.
The problem with this album then, is not the fact that it is a collection of intentionally bad music in a long line of intentionally bad music - but that over time, it has started to feel unintentionally
good. If not for its status as a surprise release, it’d even be something to look forward to, without an ounce of shame or Stockholm Syndrome setting in. In spite of the record being four solo albums masquerading as one, there’s a special kind of cohesion and camaraderie, that only exists in the shedding of KISS-like capitalism, and the warm embrace of being ordinary and ordinarily bad at the flute. It’s a testament to the unbreakable bonds of friendship, and the extremely breakable nature of lo-fi recording equipment.
Like a birthday party potluck hosted by the local veteran’s organisation, a lot of variety is on display, and not all of it is exceptionally pretty. I listened to a minute of a dude shaving. I also listened to siblings harmonising, in a moment that shifts from humourous to suddenly enviable. I listened to consecutive sea shanty-esque interludes about murderous gnomes and chupacabra-themed Manifest Destiny. I also listened to a live cover of Phil Ochs’ “Changes”, filled with finger-picking errors and finger-licking good sincerity. I listened to seven-second skits and seven-minute emo opuses, over seventy-seven minutes, waxing philosophical about human nature and releasing that existential terror over excessive guitar feedback.
Perhaps it’s because the Willies never force the joke onto anyone unsuspecting, or because in between the goofy self-deprecation there’s a glimpse of the genuine talent that’s being mutilated for fun. Either way, the absence of expectation breeds an abundance of emotion; promising nothing, delivering less and somehow sticking the landing to create a worthwhile body of work. It makes no sense. It's objectively subjective every which way. And it's okay. When you’re with the people you love, maybe nothing needs to matter.
