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In a 1905 essay titled “Road Music,” Virginia Woolf mused on how oppressive societal norms suffocate the human want for self-expression and deprive us of life’s pure rhythms. In railing towards the widespread disdain for road musicians, she wrote, “We’ve got educated ourselves to such perfection of civilisation that expression of any type has one thing nearly indecent — definitely irreticent — about it.” Although Woolf was referring to early twentieth century English society — characterised by archaic gender roles, farcical etiquette, and an never-ending record of taboos — it’s hanging how a lot this quote nonetheless rings true. In 2024, regardless of plain social progress, the sanitized vacuousness of society continues to be palpable, with every of our treasured lives sacrificed on the altars of comfort and revenue, and our well-liked “artwork” congealed into one focus-grouped, corporate-friendly, self-degradingly palatable ooze.
On a number of events, Damon McMahon, the acclaimed avant-garde-turned-pop singer-songwriter behind Amen Dunes, has described Woolf as his favourite author — at instances, even incorporating excerpts from her works into his lyrics, like 2011’s “Swim Up Behind Me,” which pilfers traces from Jacob’s Room. Although few writers may totally be in comparison with Woolf and her revolutionary, deeply psychological stream of consciousness, McMahon’s advanced, summary character research naked not less than some resemblance. And consistent with Woolf’s sentiments about societal repression, McMahon’s forthcoming sixth album Dying Jokes wrestles with an identical modern void, marked by a nefarious lust for self-importance and competitors and an absence of perspective on how one can meaningfully stay and die.
Dying Jokes is the primary Amen Dunes album in six years, so for a lot of listeners, the stakes really feel heightened. Then, add the strain of measuring as much as the career-defining creative triumph and widespread reward of this LP’s predecessor: 2018’s Freedom. Freedom is the kind of report most artists won’t ever launch — swaggeringly haunting, uniquely otherworldly, and exquisitely imperfect — and it undoubtedly introduced McMahon extra mainstream notoriety, from a coast-to-coast US theater tour opening for Fleet Foxes and a report cope with the revered Sub Pop to a songwriting gig for Liam Gallagher (certainly one of McMahon’s heroes).
Such developments would’ve appeared far-fetched again in 2004, when his buzzy stoner art-rock band Inouk cut up up after one album, or in 2006, when McMahon’s solo debut Mansions (the one report launched underneath his personal identify) obtained negative-to-mixed critiques, or in 2009, when Amen Dunes’ first LP DIA shirked accessible sounds in favor of chillingly atonal tape recordings and, in his phrases, “offended” experimental drone. However on the daybreak of the next decade, with Amen Dunes’ subsequent two data, 2011’s darkish avant-pop By means of Donkey Jaw and 2014’s hypnagogic, acoustic Love, McMahon lastly discovered how one can marry his offbeat experimentalism and budding pop ambitions.
Whereas some understandably christened McMahon a psych-folk savior, with every launch, it’s grow to be more and more clear that no style descriptor can successfully encapsulate his free-wheeling sonic mystique. In any case, what number of American rock vital darlings have launched a group of Ethiopian pop renditions (2012’s Ethio Covers), or an oft-forgotten album of strident “non-music” recordings impressed by avant-garde composers like Julius Eastman and Robert Ashley (2013’s Spoiler)? And funnily sufficient, Freedom, which pulls from a well-known palette and options a few of his most accessible work, sounds nearly as elusive as his left-field dirges. It’s a bit like Lee Mavers doing his finest Bob Dylan-meets-hip-hop impression, a spookier, extra clever Conflict On Medicine, or a higher-fidelity, extra digital Weak Sign, however above all, it’s painfully and euphorically human — like there’s rather a lot at stake emotionally. Upon launch, Freedom’s melodies and vocal performances have been probably the most transcendent of McMahon’s profession, with every notice beaming with instinctual rhythm and with each phrase crackling from inside him like a scraggly rock ‘n’ roll raconteur, an enlightened reggae singer, and a geriatric vehicle engine.
Dying Jokes can be laborious to place your finger on. Vibrating with audacious, UK garage-inspired programmed drums, daringly contorted loops, and evocative samples from stand-up comedy, raves, protests, a duplicate machine, and nearly the rest you possibly can think about, these songs are total worlds unto themselves. Some sound like maximalist rave-rock anthems (“Joyrider,” “Rugby Little one”), others askew electronic-folk ballads (“What I Need,” “Exodus”) or madcap musique concrète ramblings (“Boys,” “Spherical The World”). It’s by far probably the most lush Amen Dunes album but — what you hear in your first hear will differ out of your second, third, fourth, and so forth.
The laid-back spaciousness of Freedom is absent, and if there are any ghosts from the previous, it’s the eerie robustness of DIA, and even the zestful concept explosions of Inouk’s No Hazard. With layers upon layers of heady beats, bleary samples, and atmospheric keys, McMahon dangers masking his best asset: these reedy vibrato vocals. At instances, the overbearing percussion of “Rugby Little one” crowds McMahon’s ethereal intones, and the jarring manufacturing on “Boys” distracts from his swirling multi-tracked quavers. However elsewhere, the folky, Westerman-esque “Purple Land” (the British singer-songwriter contributed vocals to an Amen Dunes remix of “L.A.” again in 2019) and the misty, Dire Straits-like “I Don’t Thoughts” are completely balanced, with McMahon’s vocals magnetizingly foregrounded on the previous and tastefully weaved into the cacophony of the latter.
The lesser emphasis on guitars can be obtrusive, as Dying Jokes facilities on immersive percussion, boastfully booming like a basic hip-hop LP and intermittently skittering and thwacking like forgotten unfastened change clanging round inside a dryer. The beats on interludes like “Joyrider” and “Predator” are deliciously brash, and the percussion on wispy, extra rock-forward tracks like “Exodus” and “I Don’t Thoughts” has a spine-tingling tactility. Equally, the album’s samples are deployed fairly percussively, calling to thoughts the wealthy, difficult sampledelia of DJ Shadow and cultivating a larger-than-life magnificence and emotional weight.
Whereas Dying Jokes is peppered with intoxicating creativeness and impressed grit all through, it lacks the front-to-back transcendent ease of Freedom, partially as a result of tracks that depart one thing to be desired as soon as they’re lowered to reveal bones (“Rugby Little one,” “Boys,” and “Exodus”), in addition to the inherent disarray of those sound collages. However even the totally stripped-down quantity “Mary Anne” fails to crack the highest (and even center) echelon of Amen Dunes’ finest acoustic repertoire. Probably the most exhilarating songs are those the place McMahon’s melodic mastery coalesces along with his trendy, throttling instrumentals, just like the club-y blues-rocker “I Don’t Thoughts” and murky folk-jazz “Spherical The World.” And as ever, his gracefully rattling drawl stays probably the most fascinating voices of his era and is simply enhanced by the musicality of his wordplay — just like the intelligent, simply misheard phrasing of “grow to be, be calm” on “Ian,” or the haphazard, pauseless free-flow of traces like “I can’t write my thoughts’s gentle Mama I feel I’m dumb” on “Purple Land.”
Although not as vocally gifted as McMahon, the influential historic figures whose voices seem by way of samples add to the divine scope of the report. In a daring transfer (and one curiously uncredited within the album’s EPK, however maybe this recording has conveniently entered the general public area), the primary voice we hear on Dying Jokes is alleged sexual abuser Woody Allen, knee-deep in a stand-up bit about escaping a dangling by the KKK, adopted by Richard Pryor recounting a run-in with murderous mobsters and Lenny Bruce doing an impression of a kid rendered delirious from huffing mannequin airplane glue. However to make sure, samples are, firstly, mood-setting gadgets and never tacit private or political endorsements, and these comic samples discovered on the primary monitor of the album are amusingly on-the-nose of their shared theme of humorous near-death experiences or, effectively, death-jokes-iness. Different samples, particularly these on album nearer “Poor Cops,” are of muddier significance, like Lenny Bruce wisecracks on every thing from the absurdity of his obscenity trials to the classism of accents, in addition to a J Dilla interview excerpt about his frustration with strict music sampling legal guidelines.
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