Album Review: Angie McMahon - Salt
In the morning, after I’ve taken care of feeding our newly
acquired cat Ted and rinsing, then replenishing, his water dishes, and after
I’ve had at least one full cup of coffee, possibly a second one, I usually
settle in for a short amount of time on the computer before I finish getting
ready to go to work.
There is an order with which I begin internetting
around—first, it’s email, and often I have no new message to check at, like,
5:15 a.m. Then, it’s onto social media—Facebook, then Twitter, then Instagram,
because I need to know if any of my posts from the day before were successful
overnight.
Finally, it is onto music news and reviews.
Even with its decline in quality over the last few years, I
have, despite my best efforts, been a Pitchfork faithful since I was introduced
to the site by my ‘music friend’ in college, in 2004; from there, I move onto
what I commonly refer to as ‘the poorman’s Pitchfork’—Stereogum. Why? I’m not
sure. I have been reading the site since at least 2006, maybe even earlier, and
while I am constantly amazed at just how awful some of the writing is, maybe I
continue to read it because they will, occasionally, pick up on a story, or an
artist, that other outlets might not.
The same can be said for the third site I check prior to
closing the computer up and moving on with my morning—Consequence of Sound.
CoS is a catchall of sorts, often posting stories about more
than just music, possibly in an effort to compete with The Onion’s ‘A.V. Club’
outlet. There are times when the writing on Consequence of Sound is also
atrocious, and there are times where it seems like they write about Stephen
King more often than anyone ever should, however, much like Stereogum, CoS
will, every once in a while, point me in the direction of an album that I may
have otherwise slept on.
Salt, the
blistering, visceral, and haunted debut full length from Angie McMahon, is one of those albums.
McMahon appears unassuming on the cover for Salt. She sits, squinting at the
sunlight, her hair a little messy, dressed in a pair of baggy overalls. Barely
in her 20s, McMahon doesn’t so much ‘wear her influences on her sleeve,’ but
her sound is one that owes a lot to the current zeitgeist of sad young women
making guitar music—though at the same time, she brings a surprising exuberance
as well as a palpable, and at times unnerving, sense of sorrow, that makes Salt a very immediate and very urgent
album.
It also is an alarmingly bold, bombastic, cathartic
statement for both somebody so young, and for a debut full-length, arriving
mere months after the aptly titled A
Couple of Songs EP, as well as two additional, advance singles from Salt.
McMahon’s charming Australian twang will draw comparisons,
right out of the gate, to the Courtney Barnett. Both hailing from Melbourne,
Barnett is less than a decade older; and aside from a slightly similar vocal
range and cadence, and maybe a shared freewheeling affect, that’s where the
comparisons should cease. Barnett’s music, while I am admittedly not very well
versed in it, seems to have more of a sense of whimsy to it at times. McMahon
is far from a humorless stiff though—she does rhyme ‘disaster’ with ‘kidney
failure’ on “Pasta”—but her songwriting, as a whole, is much more pensive,
nervy, and confessional.
Structurally, Salt
is built around the idea of a simmering slow build—around a tension that grows
with there being little, if any, release in the end. It makes for a brooding,
fascinating listen from beginning to end, but it also means it’s the kind of
record you must be patient with as the layers reveal themselves—even when the
album’s pacing falters slightly on the second side.
With a heightened sense of reverb in the air, and a very
real feeling of loneliness and melancholy, McMahon begins the album with “Play
The Game,” a woozy, swaying slow dance that doesn’t so much set the tone for Salt, but it does slowly ease the
listener into McMahon’s world. Recorded in such a way that you can, with even a
cheap pair of headphones, hear the silence around her as she deliberately takes
very measured and dramatic strums of the guitar, with the percussion in the
background, eventually tumbling in, to keep a startlingly slow rhythm underneath.
It’s also on “Play The Game” that you can get a sense of
McMahon’s vocal delivery and the way she plays with her range. She has a husky,
‘beyond her years’ voice—at times, reminiscent of Sharon Van Etten; and
similarly to Van Etten, McMahon knows how to keep things loose and at times, a
little careless, in the way she allows her voice to effortlessly drift through
a song. “I don’t know how to play the
game you say that we’re not playing, we’re not playing,” she sings in the
song’s refrain—and as stark as it is, the melody is surprisingly infectious. “I’m not proud of all the loud things I’ve
been saying—I lost my way inside our house.” And it’s on the word ‘all’
that McMahon allows her voice to dip down into a guttural, otherworldliness,
just for that one word, because she brings it back up right after that—but in
that little moment, and with that little flourish, you get the direction the
album is capable of going on.
“Soon” has a little more momentum behind it than its
predecessor, and it’s written and performed in such a way that reminded me of
the enigmatic singer and songwriter Julie Byrne—the way the lyrics cascade
against the finger plucked guitar strings, as well as the evocative imagery
that McMahon uses. Though “Soon” becomes much louder than anything Byrne would
more than likely record—on the song’s enormous refrain: “I’ve been hiding my tears from my mother and she and my father still
laugh together—see I’d like to have real love someday,” she confesses.
McMahon’s confessional, honest, and reflective lyrics are
what, more or less, makes this album—like, yes she has a very powerful voice and
yes, the ramshackle indie rock quality of the instrumentation are also both
great reasons to listen to Salt, but
McMahon’s ability to tell a story and reflect upon herself, all while leaving
things ambiguous enough is an incredible achievement.
McMahon spends a majority of the rest of the album’s first
half doubling down on the energy—“Keeping Time,” an early single released in
2018 while she was still recording the rest of the record, out of any of Salt’s 11 tracks, screams ‘single’—from
its processed drum loop opening that the rest of the instrumentation kicks
into, as well as the caterwauling “I’ve
done me harm” that punctuates the song’s self-deprecating refrain.
“Slow Mover” and “Missing Me” are where the album’s energy
more or less peaks—a double shot of songs that showcase both McMahon’s
cleverness as a lyricist, as well as her ability to write a pop song: “Slow
Mover,” propelled forward by a shuffling guitar progression, takes off
completely during the memorable refrain that continues to evolve slightly
throughout the song’s narrative—“Maybe
we’ll get married, maybe fall in love/Could you make me fall asleep when you’re
holding me? Try set me on fire” she doesn’t so much ask but commands with
earnestness.
“Missing Me” has a little bit more of a biting edge to it,
opening with jittery and chugging guitar bursts, with McMahon snarling phrases
like “Loving you has thrown me” and “Loving you is lonely.” On an album that
tries to find the balance between tender and plaintive songs about wanting love,
as wells weary and agitated songs about what happens when love ceases to be,
“Missing Me” is, perhaps, the meanest of the bunch.
The album’s first side concludes with “Push,” perhaps the
most emotionally theatrical of the bunch—on it, McMahon switches back to the
slow simmer from earlier in the record, and the ‘pop song’ energy she tapped
into disappears. Instead, through thunderous distortion on her guitar and
percussive rumbles, “Push” resembles the kind of tight-rope walking between
quiet and loud that Jeff Buckley would so carefully walk, especially in his
visceral live performances.
The aforementioned “Pasta” opens Salt’s second half—a bit of an energetic jolt, swaying and even
humorous at times, used as a method to grab attention—but following the shuffling
groove of “Standout,” it becomes clear that Salt
was frontloaded with all of its most energetic and accessible material. The
album doesn’t become inaccessible, but things take a very dark and volatile
turn on the aptly titled “Moody Song” and “And I Am A Woman”—the pacing slows
down, and a long shadow is cast across what was already capable of being a very
ominous record at times.
Salt concludes
with “If You Call.” Recorded with the sound of traffic passing outside, and a
very present reverberation on both McMahon’s haunted, anguished voice, as well
as on the pensive strums of her acoustic guitar, the song is punctuated by long
periods of whistling that arrive shortly after the pleading coming from the
refrain. Normally, I am not particularly fond of whistling in a song—especially
this much—but here, something about it works. Perhaps it’s the spectral and
aimless nature of it, making the song’s structure looser than it would appear
without; it serves as a calming juxtaposition to the larynx shredding howls
McMahon lets rip throughout the song with a near reckless abandon.
Strangely enough, the LP version of Salt does not concluded with a short, hidden, epilogue to the
album—but the digital version (and perhaps the CD too?) does—a hushed two
lines, accompanied by acoustic guitar and even more sounds of traffic outside:
“You are my new favorite lullaby
game/when I can’t fall asleep—I type in your name.”
When Mitski’s Be The Cowboy arrived around a year ago, my conclusion was that it was a record
that wasn’t full of love songs, but rather, songs about love—the good things,
and the bad things, that come with the idea. The same could be said for Salt. Arrestingly good for a debut
full-length, Salt is a charming
collection that is spilling over with potential for McMahon’s future; but looked
at simply as a singular piece of work, it takes a very stunning, blunt, and
hyper-literate look at the concept of being young and falling in and out of
love.
The conceit of the record, in a sense, could be summed up
with lines from “Standout”—“I don’t want
someone, I don’t want someone—but I do, yeah…I wanted you.”
Comments
Post a Comment