By Beau O’Neill (Contributor) – Email
Print Edition: February 6, 2013
A corollary achievement of improving recording devices is that our view into past periods of music widens as the ability to use these devices becomes more widespread. Along with this expanded view comes an ability to accurately emulate past sounds with modern technology. This era-sensitive quality defines Twin Shadow’s 2012 release Confess, though its quality proves some styles transcend the periods of their Genesis, I mean genesis, while still carrying their signatures.
The album would have made me believe it was recorded in the 1980s, if I had to go on the portrait on the front cover, upon which George Lewis, Jr. (aka Twin Shadow) is centred, in leather jacket, bathws in red light against a blue background, looking listless, angsty and apathetic all at once, or on the sound, made of synthesizers, drum machine beats, echoing guitars and Lewis’s crooning vocals.
But it seems that trends in music do not confine the music to the time period, as this album is an interesting and beat driven exploration of love and disregard that appears fresh to the palate, albeit old to the other senses. It’s obvious from the popularity of musicians like Grimes, Purity Ring and from M83’s standout “Midnight City,” that synth-driven pop electronica is an adaptable form that allows for much creativity, despite its narrow foundations.
Twin Shadow’s success lies in the interesting, exchanging and competing rhythms, which come from various instruments, including his croons, taking turns so as not to crowd the tracks at any given moment. Yet there’s always enough going on to be thoroughly interesting, whether it’s because of the syncopation or the layering. Two or three channels run at any moment, and now and then a keyboard will trade off for a bass riff, like in “Patient,” which then goes off in an Eddie Van Halen reminiscent guitar solo, thrown in because it fits perfectly, rocks your fucking face, and because Twin Shadow knows what he can do.
Every sound is filtered through several modifiers, whether it’s Lewis’s singing, made to sound like it was recorded in an empty gymnasium, or the distorted guitar, coming from what must be a moist, tiled room if not the inside of a computer or Korg machine.
The tracks “Five Seconds” and “Beg for the Night” are distinct for being quicker and more active than the others, and faster than the material from his previous, debut album, Forget. Otherwise, Lewis does not appear to have forgotten anything else from that album’s inspiration. Confess is an evolved, tighter Forget. This is a relieving trait for listeners, as you get two albums for one if you’re a newcomer to the musician. They’re equivalent in the strengths of varied synthetic soundscapes, but Confess has definite advancements in the originality of instrumentation and mixing.
Bravado and confessions are not anything original for pop music. On the surface there’s nothing but longings and regets about loves, yet the vocals are enjoyable enough without apparent wit or meaning on first listen.
On examination, however, there are discoveries in possibility. “Five Seconds” might be about a love at first sight experience or could be a description of a crack-cocaine high: “She said five seconds and you’re high/ Straight to your heart/ I can’t get to your heart/ Thinking about the right time.” It is one of the most memorable tracks of the 10. “The One” offers an intriguing situation, “I’m in love with the end of a book/ You roll in with the cruel world… I’m in love with my memories/ You’re alone with my stuttering, hard.” There’s a nonchalant poetry in these songs, even if at times Lewis must be well aware of how close he approaches pastiche of past decades.
The recurring character of the tracks is a pulse and beat that resolve in a Peter Gabriel-like darkness of the synthetic pop, though “I Don’t Care” and “The One” are exceptions in their optimistic sound. This is not to say each track has doesn’t have its own individuality, which they do. If you get the chance, try listening to this album as you cruise through the city on a Saturday night, leather bound hand gripping the steering wheel, driving 10 km/h, ruminating on past flames. You might have fun pretending this is your own soundtrack, if you let it transport you through time.
