John Grant, the individual, is remarkable; he began his musical training at age four, and, prior to becoming a working indie rock star, with his band The Czars, had worked as Russian-English medical translator. He speaks four languages, and spent his childhood in Colorado, where he grew up in a religious family, and came out as gay in his twenties. He has struggled with addiction, and continues to struggle with severe anxiety. He is intense, wry, smart, and neurotic, and these traits inform his music.
Musically, John Grant has a gift for spinning lyrics that are clever and cutting, or weird and funny. He struggles, in his songs, with love and disappointment, and with the absurdity of existence, and does so with beauty. “GMF” is a popular favorite, about a clumsy, awkward man, flirting by putting his worst foot forward, listing his faults and promising a good time — he is, after all the greatest mother fucker you are ever going to meet. Disappointing is another classic of his; the moroseness of the title is offset by the lyrics – all great things are overshadowed by the wonder of the object of his affection. His image has complemented this; he has,until now, been without pretense or effort; he’s got an everyman look about him which he has played up for effect. One of his videos features him, bearded and wearing a collared shirt, in a steam room surrounded by beautiful men in towels. He plays an ordinary schlub, surrounded by the effortlessly beautiful, anxious and set apart, and relatable.
Grant’s newest album is long on the dry, sharp humor, and short on the bright colors of pop that balance out his cynicism; he sounds more bitter and pedantic as a result. For this latest album, Love is Magic, Grant collaborated with electronic musician Benge, of the trio Wrangler, and part of the band Creep Show, of which Grant is also a member. The shortest track clocks in at 5:04; these are meandering textures with amelodic structures; some sound almost chantlike; long recitations of descriptive lyrics over synthy textures. To accompany his new sound, Grant has started wearing avant garde glittery makeup, and outlandish costumes on the order of briefs with a chicken feather jacket. It’s more affected, more abstract, more artsy, which reads as contrived; it’s like Daft Punk’s producers came to him and told him to be more like that because it’s what the market wants these days. None of it feels quite as textured or vibrantly earnest as his past works.
The title track is also the first single; it’s the philosophical cornerstone of the album. It’s supposed to be the uplifting track amidst a collection of songs about the frustrations of love. Grant must have been struggling more than usual to have penned some of these. Love is Magic is the positive takeaway, Grant has said; no matter how hard love is, it’s worth the struggle, but it’s hard to see any light in his views:
Do you think you can take the pain?
Is it destroying the inside of your brain?
And you’ve come so very far to hear
That you’re nowhere near half-way there
There’s no milk in the refrigerator
And you’ll be hearing all about it when you get home tonight
Witticisms about the bleak absurdity of life, and the minutia of milk accompanying the enduring struggle to be okay enough, are classic Grant. On this album though, lines like these are so abundant, in these lengthy and verbose tracks, they fill the air less like a soundtrack for relatable anxiety, and more like having to listen to your friend tell you about their shitty breakup for the millionth time, five years after it happened. It’s draining. The complicated lyrics and Grant’s down to earth vocal stylings clash with the artsy synth in the background; the the result is a musical trudge through mud that sounds more like a senior project for an experimental music class than the collaboration of two well respected and established musicians. The styles clash into a droning and indulgent funfest, which is engaging only to the creators. It’s analogous to mashing up the work of Ansel Adams and Roy Lichtenstein, only with more obscure artists. It tries too hard to be cool.
“Diet Gum” is another one; it’s about manipulation and lies in a relationship. It has its clever bits, and is more overtly sexual than most (perhaps any) of Grant’s songs. To his credit, Grant never changes pronouns to appease the straight market; it’s very clear he’s singing about men. It’s another witty song, with lots of zingers! And, like most tracks, is strikingly bitter.
I manipulate, that is what I do
I manipulate, that’s what I’m doing to you
That smirk on your face was designed by me
I fucking curated it, like magically
There’s no hook in the album, nothing to make you want to connect and sing along; no brightness to bring you in. There’s some of his piano on “Is He Strange,” but the track isn’t strong enough to lift up the rest of the album. One his best tracks, from 2010, “Baby You’re Where Dreams Go To Die” is a great burn song in part because it’s so catchy, and in part because it sneaks up on you. He starts by giving compliments to the target, and then goes in for the swing. There’s nothing like that here; it’s just one long drag and by the end of it, you feel a bit of rug burn.
It’s hard to be a fan. You want your favorites to take risks because you respect them, but when it falls flat, you’re disappointed. Kudos on Grant for striving and trying, and in the meantime, I’m spinning up old Czars records to take a deep breath of his oldest material.
