Review Summary: “Everyone I know is running from the afterlife," they say, crawling from it.
“And before you see that horrible forest fire
You see this massive cloud of smoke..."
Since they last gave us the full-length record
Woodstock in 2017, the members of Portugal. The Man have summited commercial peaks and been forced to walk the plank into the ocean’s bottomless maw. At last, perhaps despite themselves, the revolving door psych pop project consistently masterminded by founding bassist Zach Carothers and singer/multi-instrumentalist John Gourley achieved an unlikely breakthrough hit after a reputable catalogue’s worth of should've-been-huge lighter-wavers and rebel anthems. Anchored by an addicting bass groove, infectious chorus melody, and Motown-inspired accoutrements, the success of that album's single “Feel It Still” was evidence these artists who had honed their spin on the 60's pop formula to a science finally had the world in the palm of their hands.
But they never really wanted it in the first place. It makes sense when you pan out to the larger picture; the reserved, introverted Carothers and Gourley may not mind the payout, but at this point they’d grown used to the rigmarole of DIY musicianship. The pair hail from Wasilla, Alaska, moving with—so the story goes—a van, instruments, and a rice cooker to establish a name for themselves in Portland in the mid-00’s to churn out records on a near-annual basis. Aligning their vision with slightly different influences each time—the Mars Volta-indebted
Waiter: “You Vultures!”, the psychedelic worship of
The Satanic Satanist, and the slick, quintessential indie pop of
Evil Friends to name a few highlights—Portugal. The Man journeyed in pursuit of that enigmatic little something extra, the perfect refrain, the pizzazz to finish the puzzle. That “Feel It Still” was the tune to eventually win them a Grammy (and from an otherwise anachronistic and indulgent bonfire of an album that bleated tuneless fodder about as often as it genuinely banged) was a confounding development. They'd had so many radio-ready jingles before now—why was this different? What clicked? Where to next? Global fame ain’t the easiest thing to process, especially after a decade of eking out means the hard way.
And then things suddenly got Worse™. While touring in 2018, Gourley broke his jaw, which needed months of bedridden rehabilitation to heal. The daughter of he and bandmate Zoe Manville was also diagnosed with an outrageously rare neurological disease (fundraiser link below), and as the title alludes to, Portugal. The Man’s unofficial hype man and MC, Chris Black, passed away in 2019. You all know what complicated matters not long after that.
In other words, far from taking in gorgeous vistas, this band witnessed the cloud of smoke. The forest fire raged on and now it’s 2023 —the charred landscape spells a new opportunity for growth, but at this juncture, the mortal dread hasn’t really vanished yet. Ash lingers present in the air of
Chris Black Changed My Life, the band’s sing-songy disposition permutated into a dour tug-of-war between mindless optimism and conscious resignation. The record’s richest cuts utilize that conflict at the center of their being, contorting uplifting sentiments with arrangements that leak abundant despair or listlessness. Exhibit A? The incredulously reassuring “Time’s A Fantasy” segueing into the somber blues ballad “Doubt.” Another standout is closer “Anxiety:Clarity,” which isn't so much sublime absolution (think “Sleep Together” or “Mornings”) than it is a heavy sigh cast in reclusive grayscale. “Dummy,” for all its clunky turns of phrase (and it’s not alone in that regard), befits its
A Christmas Carol-ass lyrics, unfolding like a witching hour existential crisis at a rave.
Not that
Chris Black is 100% poor man's rich man’s problems: “Plastic Island” and “Grim Generation” are the platonic ideal for this record’s musical course correction: straightforward, bass-led pop rock with 70s funk vibes and clean, active production courtesy of the band's first collaboration with Jeff Bhasker. Gourley’s melodies and deliveries are understated throughout but unravel their hooks after a few attentive spins, and Carothers’ licks have rarely been as front and center as they are here. Manville also has a more prominent presence on the mic, harmonizing to several of these songs and fashioning them as duets. If a back to basics approach was the name of the game, Portugal. The Man hit the target close to the bullseye about half the time.
Still, these musicians’ brushes with death and decay haven’t left them eager to seize new territory—if anything, the few times they branch outside the album’s hastily-established groove, they run into the same issues they did on
Woodstock; amateur bars (“Ghost Town,” “Thunderdome”), incongruous features (“Thunderdome” again—probably should’ve just binned this one, fellas), and hackneyed sampling (the outro of “Champ”) render this already meager and intentionally muted affair more prone to whiplash than it has any right being. Consider the 34-minute runtime and it’s hard to say which is more worrisome: the scarcity of diversity here, or just how distracting those few experiments are to the album’s center of gravity. For a release so inspired by unfortunate events, the actual music is either pleasant to a fault or far off course to begin with.
And yet it feels like a necessary step forward, even if just as a stopgap for something more composed, more ambitious. For better and worse,
Chris Black Changed My Life is the band’s most disposable effort yet, unlikely to make fans old or new flock to their return, but just as unlikely to frame them as a lost cause. Everyone copes with stress differently—on “Doubt,” Gourley repeats that he doesn’t need to shine for anyone but himself. The mantra doesn’t inherently hold water, but alas, the fire it could put out has already burnt—a scorched field remains, the vegetation beneath waiting for the chance to poke through and sprout anew. Will it be coming around again, or is it the end? God, I hope this isn't the end.
