Review Summary: The tale of the ingenious hidalgo Colin Meloy de la Decemberists...
Listen: tucked away in the wonderful fantasies of Mr. Colin Meloy abides his fictionalized alter-ego, also named Colin Meloy, also frontman of a band called The Decemberists, but oneiric Colin operates in an alternate dimension from his worldly counterpart. His inclinations, for whatever goofy reason, are of the absurd. The chronicles of this quixotic character are sparse in number – Colin de jure is typically very responsible in that regard – but just a few short years ago he pressed so hard against poor Colin’s brain that our hero had no other choice but to give in. Then burst forth from the growing incision in the musician’s creative subconscious a shape shifting faun, a forest witch, and a murderous rake, among many other splendid things. Meloy, blind to the ludicrousness of it all, was in awe of his marvelous progeny and, convinced of its brilliance, committed it to tape. His band said nothing in protest, since in actuality they were really just appendages to his musical prowess. The product of Mr. Meloy’s madness, so they say, was an album entitled
The Hazards of Love, a ridiculous piece of work that wasn’t quite bad but wasn’t quite good, either. Finally, bored of whimsical hijinks, Shadow Colin detached from his host. The damage inflicted upon his reputation, Meloy concluded, was incalculable: he’d recorded one of the decade’s stalest opuses, and his most recent document of sobriety was
Colin Meloy Sings Sam Cooke. Suddenly, he was very fearful for his relevance. What was Colin Meloy to do!?
That’s when he remembered that he was a talented songwriter. “Suppose I were to convene the gang and ask them how they felt about a record of straight-up songs?” Meloy asked himself. Colin liked that idea, so he filed it into his accordion folder amongst several more inspired career moves. Much deliberation followed, and at long last only two options remained – become a recluse and hope for Jeff Mangum status, or write individual songs. He flipped a coin, for if he hadn’t, he likely would have been plagued by indecision for years on end, and the world received
The King Is Dead. Unsurprisingly, people were pleased by The Decemberists’ fine new collection of tunes, showering it with such adjectives and phrases as “fresh,” “fun,” and “not conceptually bloated.” “Safe” was another word commonly used to delineate the album’s sound, and it was true; but Colin, now possibly
Wilco (The Album)’s greatest scholar, deduced that it was ok for one to be safe so long as he didn’t draw yawns. He even toyed with the notion of naming his ten-song set
The Decemberists (The Album). Jeff Tweedy had heard
The Hazards of Love, though, and therefore wouldn’t stand for Meloy’s homage. So when
The King Is Dead dropped and fans loved it, our loveable Colin Meloy blew a raspberry at mean old Tweedy because, when all was said and done, safe Decemberists put safe Wilco to shame. Thus is the tale of the ingenious hidalgo Colin Meloy, who held a bleeding livelihood in his hands, and breathed life back into it.
Reviewer’s postscript: No kidding, start your year off correctly and give
The King Is Dead the attention it full well deserves. Safe, but gorgeously safe; trimmed, but of all fat; and most of all, there’s vital, purposeful energy bursting from every corner: harmonicas discharge fanfares with the might of French horns, jangly and acoustic guitars both provoke melody with natural effortlessness, and then there’s Mr. Colin Meloy, the star of the show, and his verve-infused delivery that doesn’t let up for one second of the album’s 41 minutes. Consider your interest in The Decemberists restored, buddies, and take heed of the story. There’s truth in the story. Well, in most of it, anyway; I’m not so sure about the Shadow Colin part, or the Jeff Mangum part, or the Jeff Tweedy part. It’s what I was told, but I guess you never can trust your sources, huh?
