Hey Sputters—
Welcome back to Neek’s 1st Listen, where I listen to an album for the very first time while my fingers fly across the keyboard, generating near-thoughtless spur-of-the-moment takes. It’s messy, stream-of-conscious, and only very lightly edited. You’ve been warned!
Full disclosure:
I love Foxing. Well, for brevity’s sake, I love Nearer My God, and most of their other stuff with the occaisional asterisk. Perhaps I shouldn’t have heard “Hell 99” first but it left just a bad taste in my mouth that ran through “Greyhound” and it never left. Still, I don’t expect this to be the first Foxing album I’m not into, I’m just worried that their scattershot freneticism might be more frustrating than captivating this time around.
Without further ado…
“Secret History”:
The scratchy record vocal sample playing under Conor’s voice suddenly makes me realize why Sowing cites “Vices” in his opening paragraph, but I wonder if it’ll have the same “surprise explosion.” And there we go. Ok and it’s already gone! So like, I’m not sure that counts as a surprise after “Hell 99.” Alternating between two very disparate sounds and genres and melodies on the same track is an interesting opening statement for sure, but I fail to see this having the same lasting impact as, say, “737” did for both me and its parent album. 6/10
“Hell 99”:
Ok well that…
David Bowie’s impact is cohesive and powerful when assessed within conventional metrics like “innovation” and “longevity”—some call swan song BLACKSTAR (2016), released 49 years after his first LP, the best work he ever did, generally without much objection from those who think his magnum opera issued forth decades rather than days before his tragic, shot-heard-round-the-world-style departure from this Earth. As for innovation, innumerably more people will testify to how consistently Bowie pushed against the generic boundaries of radio music throughout his long, long career, despite rooting his practice in familiar traditions of chords-and-melody drawn from British folk, Gershwin showtunes, 1950s rhythm-and-blues—lots of stuff people had already heard whose emotional contracts with global audiences had new life breathed into them by a guy whose relationship with tradition was purer for its lack of self-surveillance. Bowie forged his own path by not caring how he’d come off seemingly at all—his career takes on an unpleasant shape if you fetishize either tradition or subversion, and so he’s the kind of artist who teaches us to be better listeners, to latch less often onto shit that ultimately doesn’t matter. I don’t know if I believe Nietzsche when he says that we’re losing some essential element of experience in grouping together as “leaves” the individual green things that issue forth from…
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