The Worst Albums I Own #1

The Worst Albums I Own

It is well documented throughout music history that trying to follow up a great album is a difficult task. There is the concern of putting out the same album twice, almost a surefire way to draw criticism for not trying. Many bands follow smash hits with complete variants, trying to distance themselves from the possibility of copying their previous success (think Radiohead after Ok Computer). Sometimes, the agony of following a beloved album is too much for the artist altogether, causing them to outright stop while there ahead (thanks a lot, Neutral Milk Hotel). All of these strategies point towards a universal inability to deal with newfound fame, an attempt to adjust to a new share of the limelight.
But what of the artist that never made it to the first plateau? It seemed like it was a perfect moment for them to hit their spots on an album and burst into the consciousness, but they ultimately failed. These acts are left unknowns, more in pain that those playing local bars three nights a week, because they might have had a shot to make it. Don't those pains of becoming stars seem so easy to them? It's never easy, and they know, but to have to worry about people knowing who they are wherever they are and constantly having to tour and travel seems like something they could at least take a stab at, if they could only have the chance.
My first encounter with An Angle came as a member of In A Story Told, a now-defunct Bright Eyes forum (note: I was 15). Kris Anaya's folk-pop collective had become the talk of the boards due simply to his amazing vocal likeness to Conor Oberst. As the website was passed from member to member, two things became clear to us: he was obviously copying Bright Eyes, and he was very very good. His album ...And Take It With A Grain of Salt became an instant member of my rotation, gaining guilty pleasure status and, eventually, an honest spot of admiration. It was a great album for me at that moment; it balanced earnest lyrics and delivery with poppy arrangements, occasionally opting for a more morose stance. I gained immediate interest when I heard about their 2005 release, We Can Breathe Under Alcohol.
This is where we hit our fork (or, more accurately, landmine) in the road. Every positive adjective that could have been applied to his previous effort was matched here with a negative counterpart, making it failure not only for what it was, but for what it could have possibly been. This makes it a prime candidate for The Worst Albums I Own, as it something that hurts to hear. It causes cringing. It sparks laughter and, for those of us who knew what this could have been, it makes for a simple sad feeling that builds in the pit of our stomachs.

An Angle
We Can Breathe Under Alcohol

The album begins with the fairly peppy "Green Water", setting the tone for this semi-concept album. The constant references to alcohol and friends begin early, allowing for a sort of us vs. them mentality to start. If this sounds like a lot to stuff into an album opener, it is; the major problem with WCBUA is its' inability to sort out themes. From what I can tell after repeated listening, the themes this album puts forth are (in order of importance):

- Alcoholism
- Politics (war, peace, AIDS)
- Friendship
- Love

All of these fall under an umbrella of confusion in Anaya, who is obviously having some issues with who he is. The confusion bleeds into the songs, as he can't keep his symbolism or meaning straight in any of them. For instance, "A Way with Words" starts off being a tale of disillusioned love, but quickly devolves - bizarrely - into a statement about American's destroying this country and, once again, a review of his alcoholism.
"True Love" also attempts to review his pessimistic view towards love ("There's no such thing as love"), but once again turns into a rambling a statement of America's standing in the world and his alcoholism. By this point, it's hard to tell if the lyrics were written by a sober mind or someone who has become a little too indulged in his muse.
"Rambling" and "Indulgence" are actually both very good descriptors of this album. For the most part, the songs both a) cannot keep themselves straight and b) will not end. Six out of the ten songs clock in at over five minutes, with three of those being over six. One song comes in under four minutes. Perhaps clarity could have come through the art of editing, as cutting some songs off at the roots would have kept some of the pesky pet messages from bubbling to the surface, saving the listener from another awkward and pretentious comparison of one's personal problems to geo-political strife.
There are really only two bright spots in the album, coming in the back-to-back "Angry Drunk" and "White Horse". Both of these songs show both the songwriting ability of Anaya and a template for how this concept album could have worked: work the message into the songs, don't make the message the song. "Angry Drunk" is a deeply personal, morose telling of an alcoholic hitting rock-bottom, while "White Horse" serves as the morning after companion piece, attempting to build the sad man back up from the gutter and help him to what he could be. These two provide the poetic and climactic heart of the album, forcing the listening to develop pity, anger and, eventually, hope for the main character.
Sadly, this couplet is followed by "Born in a Bottle", a massive affront to all that is good and musical. It plods in at a mere seven seconds shy of nine minutes, with no musical heart to carry it through; the repeated riff is a lazy, sloppy act of plucking, which is absolutely awful for a song that lacks any sort of a hook. Lyrically, Anaya is absolutely scattershot, shifting from anti-religion and political rhetoric to damning the indie music scene to self-aggrandizing his abilities against the evil music industry with all the ability of the drunken protagonist he portrays. As the song mercifully draws to a close, with Anaya barely whispering "I'm gonna sing as loud as I should", the anger built up inside of me makes withholding laughter difficult.
The album officially comes of the tracks after that, with more aggrandizing, and a bizarre sing-along focused on - of all things - the end of war correlating with the end of network television. On the final monster of a track, "St. Augustine", Anaya loses the thin layer between his art and himself. He becomes the subject matter, the drunken rambler who hasn't a clue. He is seems more content scream along with his friends than string together coherent thought. He is, essentially, the drunk amongst friends; spewing nonsense, he clutches close to them for support, almost like a stumbler throwing an arm around a buddy's shoulders and slurring "I love you, man!"
This album is not a failure; it is a majestic, grotesque, disgusting failure. Anaya seems to have lost the ability to write a song that has even the most basic of pop leanings, but without taking them out of their pop stylings, leaving them empty shells of broken thought and confusing lyrics. He sounds like he's having fun with his friends throughout the recording process, and that provides some respite for him. However, something that is essentially drunken rambling with buddies does not an album make. This album exists as a warning for those who look to become one of the ordained in the musical Canon, and it is a thorough and distinct warning; completely avoid doing anything this album does, and you should be fine.