Review Summary: It turns out I've been getting bored more often . . .
For years, over a decade in fact, people have been trying to get me into this band, even though one was always confronted by the uncomfortable suggestion that this isn’t a “real band,” whatever you want to make of that meme. And then there’s all the untethered lore attached to the genre-warping evolution of Emil Amos/Holy Sons. He also has a podcast
Lost Decade (2000) begins with the triumphant drone of “To Abraxas with Headaches,” which used to be my least favorite song ever. Now I think it’s cool – and especially in context of the album as a total unit. Emil’s vocals are so raw and haunting, you sure don’t want to jam this with other people around, but once you settle into the groove of his creepy intonations and sloppy guitar strumming it makes sense. I get it.
That said, you should probably not begin exploring Holy Sons with this album. I’ll recommend a few. Lost Decade is Emil’s first album, but he does not care about alienating his potential audience clearly
Wounded Son has a spring to it. Hell it’s poppy. I can’t quite understand what Emil’s saying so I look up the lyrics and am floored by the scope of what he’s saying. I’m very impressed by the lyricism throughout the dude’s entire discography and even here you get the sense that the man has some stunning insights into human destiny vs. the human condition vs. human nature but it’s delivered with of all things an elemental spirit of rock and roll, airy and free and beyond the capacity of any analytical approach
There are some short “throwaway” cuts like Wait Stop Plex with its irreverent lilting vocals contrasting the hopefully lamenting filler of Of Cain but these palette cleansers honestly helped me differentiate Lost Decade’s more “realized” tracks. The ones that want to rip you apart. It’s a wonky structure but it flows. Thirty seven minutes of bona fide experimental folk.
The back half fkn rocks. Emil introduces even murkier textures, a drunken Poseidon exiled from rooms he once inhabited. He is a stone carried by foot from the wilderness of Appalachia to Portland I think. He’s hanging with these two dogs, “lovin’ and livin’ / I’m laughin’ my days away to / Oh *** I’ve got to get up and go after them they’re / already down the road / hip chop chop.” Breezy lyrics but there’s such tension in the delivery. You get a sense that he’s not actually talking about dogs. It’d be unbearably disturbing to bear such vague commentary on humanity if it didn’t rock so hard. It’s also sad. Emil definitely misses a woman, I mean he’s crying out to Jesus about it. Sprawling closer Secret Track has the substance of a dripping faucet in a good way. Lost Decade unravels into aimless reflection and you with it
This review is not ironic; I just don’t care to make this look clean or whatever. Anyway, I’ll admit it. Holy Sons is one of the greatest underground acts I’ve ever heard. His first album is great!
