I Don’t Want No More of this Harmful Life

Tuesday night my copy of Andrew Weatherall’s A Pox on the Pioneers arrived par avion from the UK.  Needless to say, I have been listening to nothing save for this record for about 72 hours.

A Pox on the Pioneers | Andrew Weatherall

Released September the 14 on Weatherall and his Two Lone Swordsmen partner Keith Tenniswood’s Rotters Golf Club label, A Pox on the Pioneers is in an unexpected mode of continuity from 2007’s The Bullet Catcher’s Apprentice, the EP that marked Weatherall’s first self-credited record.

Where The Bullet Catcher’s Apprentice sounds like a From the Double Gone Chapel era Two Lone Swordsmen record made with Giorgio Moroder standing over the engineer’s shoulder, an almost industrial lurch coupled with plastic four-on-the-floor disco bass, beats and the occasional Gaynor-esque female vocal solo, A Pox on the Pioneers adds a T. Rex shuffle and boogie-woogie lightness to the still heavily effected and echoing atmosphere and vox.  The dirty guitars swimming in the reverb’s bright murk suddenly come to have something in common with garage rock; there’s a little Marc Bolan swagger thrown in, alleviating a little of the old dread.  The guitars sometimes stand out ahead of the engineering and the electronic programming on some songs to where suddenly you wonder, ‘am I listening to a rock record?’

And that is the trait, carried through from the Two Lone Swordsmen into Weatherall’s solo records, that has set Weatherall’s music apart.  It truly is, as the Gracenote track naming service informed me when it fetched the CD track names and info upon the disc’s insertion into my computer, unclassifiable.

Weatherall is one of the only musicians working today consistently making music that I can really get into.  Ever since hearing 2004’s Two Lone Swordsmen record From the Double Gone Chapel, I’ve been on the lookout for more of that darkly reverbed, lurching disco sound they did so well there and on the subsequent Big Silver Shining Motor of Sin EP.  Hearing their cover of Gun Club’s “Sex Beat” still evokes paroxysmic dithyrambs to issue from between these lips and a conspicuous tapping to issue between the bottom of my shoes and the subway car floor.

Here is the Gun Club’s original version of that sleek and perfect tune, evoking all the flashing glitter of first walking into a party, a gone glimmering kind of time when all the best people are assembled before hangover and disappointment set in, an instant where youth might deceive you into thinking anything can happen:

The Gun Club in 1982
The Gun Club in 1982

Below is the noisy and disaffected 2004 update, a too-cool take whose energy is more mechanical than animal, a story of a party that goes on without inhibitions more out of fidelity to the laws of inertia than a genuine enthusiasm drawn up from the well of ignorance of what comes next.  Even icier than this is the remix they did on Big Shining Silver Motor of Sin.

The bright tone that has snuck into Weatherall’s new record finds its culmination with the outstanding closing track, “Walk of Shame”.  With its immediate, punching, absolutely huge drums seemingly engineered under the influence of Sparks’ “Tryouts for the Human Race”, the opening synthesizer arpeggio that carries on throughout, and the loping, sleazy low end octave modulation of the synthetic disco bassline always hanging one easy instant behind the beat, the record finishes amid Another Green World-era Eno guitar feedback and the sense that, as the narrator of the song has made up his mind to turn his back on the lifestyle that has stunted him, the listener has been gifted an honest piece of art and a real glimpse at hope.

Henry Miller wrote in his essay “My Life as an Echo”:

It was only when I got to France, where I came to grips with myself, that I realized that I alone was responsible for all the misfortunes which had befallen me.  The day that truth danwed on me- and it came like a flash- the burden fo guilt and suffering fell away.  What a tremendous relief it was to cease blaming society, or my parents, or my country.  “Guilty, Your Honor!  Guilty, Your Majesty!  Guilty on all points!” I could exclaim.  And feel good about it.

So a smile crawls across my face when I hear the song’s lines: “I don’t want to take the walk of shame/I have got to go home/I have only got myself to blame/I have got to go home.”

I nod my head, and I take a moment and breathe, vicariously, the scent of a little humanity unshackling.