Marit Bergman’s music sounds exactly as one could imagine Liz Phair sounding if she stopped dicking around trying to impress the kids playing Xbox and watching 90210 and began writing music for adults about adult things. Sure, Liz has the whole shock thing down. She’s written songs on topics from the health benefits of semen (HWC) to an ode to lust (Flower), that, while not completely ineffective, is pretty dirty. Yet it’s only when she locks in on an age appropriate target or feeling that she gets anywhere close to the bullseye (Divorce Song – Classic!).
Marit Bergman is just as indie as Phair, and their voices carry a similar plaintive timbre. Yet while images of Phair posing in her underpants can be found quickly via google search, Marit holds her cards closer to her body. And while Phair’s music fills in the all of the holes for the listener (pun intended due to the suggenstive matter of her lyrics), Bergman creates interesting songs that work as pastiche, vignette, love song and short story, yet leaves enough of the song open that you don’t feel you’ve been pandered to. It’s intelligent pop music for adults, and, rather than only being available primarily in her home country of Sweden, because in a perfect world, Bergman’s name would be everywhere.
Bergman’s new CD, The Tear Collector, is another rewarding collection by a talented artist (there’s also a 2-disc bonus edition featuring eight extra songs released last year on her website, which is what this review is based on). As a whole, the disc really changes things up and Bergman takes some risks with her sound. At times, it’s genre defying: the a capella Maybe, We’ll See has an old time quality and Bergman’s phrasing is charming as she sings about home life, Tony is almost chamber folk, and tracks I Followed Him Around and Traveling Companion wouldn’t feel out of place being heard Broadway Musical. 300 Days in a Row could have been a Dusty in Memphis throwaway.
Lyrically, Bergman’s songs present a great batch of variety, mainly due to the nuances she throws into each track. I Followed Him Around is equal parts embarrassing and moving; Tony, a song about an ended relationship contains the line, “Don’t remember much but tongues and thighs that ached/and the when I got home they told me that my cousin/had passed away”. Clearly, these aren’t cookie cutter pop songs, but idosyncratic moments taken from real life experiences, which makes them so much more heartening.
Not everything works. Let Go! is filler that still has me scratching my head and Snow on the Tenth of May treads water, but the sentiment is sweet. In the Morning peters out without giving any sort of chorus. Granted, these are all minor complaints that are easily remedied with itunes.
I’ve posted a direct link to Bergmans site, where you can order and/or download her album and purchase songs individually. At least throw her 99 cents and let her know that there’s more to America’s musical tastes than Hannah Montana and Jonas Brothers!
www.maritbergman.net
It’s been a long road traveled for the woman who frequently appeared sprawled out on the floor on her album covers: looking as though taken from behind by surprise, panic stricken and unable to move, to the image that adorns the cover of Neko Case’s sixth CD, Middle Cyclone, who is nobody’s victim. Sure it’s all a little bit camp, but who doesn’t envy the strength she summons clutching a sword, ready to strike, perched upon the hood of a Cougar. It’s Barbarella meets Tarantino. And it’s hot.
I was really trying to stay optimistic after having seen, two weeks earlier, Kathleen Edwards crash and burn in a way I can only describe as a member of the audience of that particular show as being slow and painful to hear, much less watch. Venues like Eddie’s Attic are such a great idea, and when coupled with the right artist, really transcend the live music experience. But when an artist, such as Kathleen Edwards, who can barely keep in tune on record, decides to do a full set unplugged with limited backup, the experience proved to be monotonous and grating. I left six songs into the show (and it should be known I am a BIG KE Fan!).
Alright, so while I’m on the subject of Juliana Hatfield (see book review below), let’s talk about the Honor System. It’s not everyday that a quality musician makes close to forty unreleased and rare tracks available on her website and simply asks for a donation in return. However, at www.julianahatfield.com, it’s called the Honor System and also an “experiment”, but for die hards, this really is a treasure trove of great material and a completist’s wet dream.
I’ve recently gotten back into reading after plowing through two books by Marianne Faithfull. For years I’d been under the impression that fiction was better than non-fiction due to the fact that the story being told was malleable. An author of fiction could go to painstaking efforts to craft a story that was planned perfectly from start to finish and presented in the same way that a host or hostess would plan a menu and set a dinner table. But after discovering several rock memoirs, such as Black Postcards by Dean Wareham and A Bit of a Blur, by Alex James, I’m convinced that the best stories are the ones that have actually happened and that give insight into a particular individual, event, or time frame, rather than sifting through pages filled with carefully constructed characters used to foil each other or convey some sort of symbolic significance. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that, in fact, here’s a secret: Nothing is better than eating a Henry James novel)
There was a point, several years ago, after a series of brief, failed attempts at friendships and relationships that I entered my mid twenties feeling as though I was the only person on Earth with any sanity. My driving was the best, my choice in music peerless, my wardrobe everything it should be, as well as every other decision I would make in the timespan of a day. I broke up with someone because he ate all of my food and lived in a dorm. I stopped hanging out with people who shopped at Old Navy and carefully scrutinized everything about everyone. I was a judgey judger.