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Joy:
Self-Titled
Heres my theory: Joy takes poetry and music and mashes them together both created independently, yet forever conjoined from this point forward. My dream label, Shrimper Records, released these eleven songs. Imagine Simon and Garfunkel as twenty-somethings on the cusp of 2000, getting high and recording 4-track demos. Music based mainly on guitars, with vocals that teeter like a long lost Oldham brother until they hit their signature harmonies. If you close your eyes, sometimes they sound like Guided By Voices. Write words. Write a melody. Now make those words fit the melody. It doesnt matter if you need to pause in the middle of a word, even if its at the spot where pop song structure dictates a division. Verse-chorus-verse-chorus-bridge-chorus. Just make the words fit. These lads pull it off, and their skillful trickery goes unnoticed unless you actually read the lyrics. And the lyrics... ummm... my balls are birds nests crowded with the chirping of little mouths that zoom toward little deaths. My mind makes the connection between balls, mouths, and la petite mort, but youre not going to tell me this lyric is actually about a blowjob, are you? These words come close to making sense. If nothing else, they point you in the right direction. Ill be honest: I just realized minutes ago that I had the lyrics to this album (some brilliant reviewer I am, not even opening the CDs booklet) after listening to this CD for about three weeks on a very regular basis. I liked it a lot better back when I didnt have any clue what they were saying. It used to be a foreign dialect, or a different language. Now its stream-of-conscious poetry hammered into place by a delicate hammer with a knack for melody and harmony. Like most music from Shrimper, this has a lo-fi feel to it. Like most music from Shrimper, its brilliant. Just do yourself a favor, and throw away the lyric sheet. Youll feel much better if you spend the rest of your life guessing.
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