Amen Dunes’ sixth studio album ‘Death Jokes’ boasts a grandiose concept, and one to be commended, if the simulacrum were handled with panache.
Stream: ‘Death Jokes’ – Amen Dunes
Before we embark, I’ll make a promise: I’m not going to intellectualise this album.
It’s a promise many of its reviewers cannot make – perhaps not even Amen Dunes’ project lead, Damon McMahon, himself.
Some things are worth intellectualising, like the writings of Virginia Woolf, neo-liberalism, or what constitutes a New York slice (two of which this album, allegedly, bounces off). Alas, the sixth studio album from Amen Dunes, Death Jokes – with its bolted-on audio clippings from the spheres of culture and politics – can’t be; as much as it wishes it could. The project’s simplistic and often-nebulous lyrical edifice, which would rightly be commended in other contexts, translates as more affectation than allusion; more copy-and-paste than pastiche. No, it isn’t quite the Gil Scott-Heron-behind-a-synth moment, as some would have you believe.
Thanks to Death Jokes, the half-baked revolution will be televised – and transmitted directly to you via ghostly recordings from the past. It makes for a thrillingly trite listen, like being insidiously mauled by a leech over a span of ten years.
From a glance at Amen Dunes’ spiel around the release on Spotify, is seems we are supposed to extrapolate themes of oppressive social norms, isolation, cultural stagnancy, and political vacuousness – but none of these are explored in the material itself with any tightness, ubiquity or depth. The tale of this album, therefore, is one of political points sorely borrowed.
“You’re being obtuse,” I hear you cry, and I appreciate that the prevailing point is to reflect the contemporary societal hollowness in the music. A grandiosely post-modern idea indeed, and one to be commended, if the simulacrum were handled with panache.
The first voice we hear on the 8-minute-or-so epic, “Round the World,” is in fact that of Woody Allen’s – half-way into a skit on evading a hanging by the Klu Klux Klan. This is proceeded by Richard Pryor relating a rub with a criminal gang, before Lenny Bruce executes an impression of a child intoxicated by glue. What ties all this together, you ask? Well, they’re all death jokes. Is that not as clever as a cake with sprinkles is culinarily challenging? We praised the Beatles for this stuff, not because it made the music better, but because it was pioneering, at the time.
The opening lyrics for this opener (“Made up my mind, I give up on you. This world’s on fire, Nothing seems true”), are less an analysis of the post-truth era, than an uncommitted point in its direction. The fragile and eye-rollingly banal commentary around technology and modernity, which we are subsequently treated to (“Getting stoned, on their phones. They’re so lonely and don’t know why”), hardly survives being picked apart – only underlined. I’ll take the liberty to refer the reader to another alt-rock album, Tranquillity Base Hotel & Casino, for a stiffer dose of digitisation analysis.
At the end of “Round the World,” French teacher and composer, Nadia Boulanger, is quoted; asserting that art should generate debate and be of cultural importance for years to come. It’s a reasonable point. Unfortunately though, this kind of poetry does not rub off when you brush past it, like some celestial pollen, so including the reference fails to imbue the song with that quality – even if McMahon did get piano lessons from Boulanger’s student.
No, pointing to the existence of cultural commentary does not equate to commentary in and of itself.
It has to be less contrived than that. Kendrick Lamar’s To Pimp A Butterfly (Death Jokes toe-dips in the same genre world) springs to mind as a shining example of pulling this off. To praise Death Jokes for its ‘richness’ – engendered by the insertion of these audio clippings – is tantamount to praising Duchamp’s urinal for technique. Sadly, even the philosophy behind Death Jokes isn’t as novel as a porcelain peeing pot.
In many ways, “Round the World” personifies the rest of the album – it’s a big beachball. There’s lot of colour at the surface, but even more air on the inside; much like the culture it so tentatively dissects, with the sheepish hands of a junior mortician.
Concepts aside, the sound of the music on the album is sharply engaging, thanks to its genre-bending arrangements and indefatigable spirit.
From a musical standpoint, the deliciously hypnotic “Boys,” is by far the jewel in the LP’s crown. The arrangement is refreshingly simple for Amen Dunes: A slap bass, a clean guitar with the tone rolled off and an acoustic kit forming much of the scaffolding of the song.
As ever, the greatest draw is McMahon’s breathtakingly original delivery – a pitchy, metallic warble – which surfs on waves of disorientating delay. As we reach the end of the track, all manner of dissonant clicks, ticks, and frenetic sonic fuzzes dip in and out – like the jingle of some macabre circus in the sky. This is one of the catchiest cuts on the record, and the album’s closest pass by indie rock.
In terms of sincerity, “Rugby Child” feels the strongest on the LP. The electric percussion, Nirvana-inspired, moody guitar tone and deep, oozing synthesizers amount to a mystical, intricate, and transcendentally ecstatic piece. This is about living on streets scarred by violence, though I again find myself wishing substance had risen above style in a more obvious way.
The weakest of the singles is “Purple Land.” The tune opens with the vocal against muted and heavily-delayed synth chords; continuing much the same way – with the exception of a percussive shift – until it’s over. In the meantime, there’s the odd hallucinatory distortion or reverse effect thrown in for the full ‘Amen Dunes experience.’ The lyrics were written as a letter to McMahon’s daughter, who was born during the album’s production, and touch on themes of love and loss. It’s a slow-burning wick but the fireworks never come. Here’s a move that, not for the first time, leaves the listener feeling short-changed. For fans of Liam Gallagher, Amen Dunes remains stubbornly indirect.
Another honourable mention on the LP would include the crunchy, catchy and tastefully dissonant, “Ian.” There are some brief, pretty fillers here too, such as “What I Want” and “Joyrider,” though they don’t amount to much.
Diving back into Amen Dunes’ discography paints a picture of an artist engaged in a perennial battle – between gothic, experimentalist tendencies, and pop or rock sensibilities. As McMahon’s career evolved, his tilt toward pop became most obvious and pleasing on the Sub Pop-backed album, Freedom, which propelled him into the mainstream. Some of Amen Dunes’ best songs – “Blue Rose,” “Miki Dora,” and “L.A.” – are his most popular for good reason.
Death Jokes, then, marks the beginning of the pendulum swing back to the early days of abstraction, which does not make for easy listening.
Of course, it does mean you’ll likely hear something new every time – but only because it’s as busy as Piccadilly Circus on a Saturday night.
This LP is far more rewarding on the ear than it is on the brain. I put it down no less a fan of the artist than before, but no more interested in buying a gig ticket – for fear of rubbing shoulders with the city’s pseudo-intelligentsia and amateur bohemian art critics, with their moleskins and Jacob’s Room copies in hand.
Okay, I intellectualised a bit, but anything can be, can’t it?
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:: stream/purchase Death Jokes here ::
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Watch: “Rugby Child” – Amen Dunes
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© Michael Schmelling
© Michael Schmelling:: Stream Amen Dunes ::
