The Magnetic Fields 50 Song Memoir, Awa Poulo Poulo Warali
The Magnetic Fields
50 Song Memoir
(Nonesuch)
Like the Magnetic Fields’ 1999 breakthrough triple-album 69 Love Songs, the new 5-disc album 50 Song Memoir seems to be a feat and a stunt, featuring one song for each year of songwriter Stephin Merritt’s life. 69 Love Songs was a successful attempt to break out of the “indie-rock ghetto,” but the idea for 50 Song Memoir was actually proposed by Nonesuch Records president Robert Hurwitz.
Merritt is a songwriter who has made a point of making non-autobiographical songs, so this is an odd turn—one that did not result in any personal revelations or self-discovery, as he matter-of-factly told an NPR interviewer recently. This is classic Merritt, who is a fan of playwright Bertolt Brecht’s “Verfremdungseffekt,” or the distancing effect, where the familiar is made strange for the audience; by disengaging an audience emotionally, it strives for a more clinical type of understanding.
That said, emotions can be remembered more vividly than details, to paraphrase the famous Maya Angelou quote. There are strong emotions on 50 Song Memoir, but they are always tempered with another quality.
On “’77 Life Ain’t All Bad,” Merritt sings about his mother’s despicable boyfriend, oozing with utter hatred, but the chorus is a laughter-inducing sing-along that starts, “Na na na na / Na na na / You’re dead now.” There’s a good deal of heartbreak expressed with Merritt’s beloved use of cliché for emotional shorthand, and on the other hand, Merritt’s joy is often shown through cultural discoveries, from books (Edith Wharton’s Ethan Frome, Isaac Asimov) to lots of music, including disco and John Foxx’s synth-pop.
Back on the topic of making the familiar sound strange, in typical Magnetic Fields fashion, Merritt often prefers making his instruments (of which over one hundred are featured on 50 Song Memoir) sound unusual. His trademarks—wickedly clever lyrics, an embrace of artificiality, immediately hummable pop melodies, Merritt’s astoundingly low and deep voice—are all here, in top form.
Merritt himself admits to making embellishments, in the interview with Daniel Handler (a.k.a. Lemony Snicket) included in the album’s 100-page booklet; since memories are unreliable, these songs now serve as his indelible history, and Merritt suspects his “entire life is going to disappear into this album.”
Merritt isn’t trying to make sense of the first 50 years of his life or provide meaning where there is none; the stories are just there, existing in songs. Perhaps the most representative song (and one of the album’s finest), then, is the faux gospel number “’74 No,” where Merritt’s militant atheism and skepticism are comically clear: “Is there a source of wisdom that will see you through? Will there be peace in our time? No.”
Awa Poulo
Poulo Warali
(Awesome Tapes From Africa)
Singer and songwriter Awa Poulo, of Peulh origin from southwestern Mali in West Africa, has a diverse array of thoughts and concerns covered in her songs, some of which are relatable for western-world audiences, while other quaint ones—well, not so much.
Take “Poulo Hoto Ngari,” which Poulo states is “a song dedicated to all the people who gave me cows on my last tour.” Her concern is where she will keep them all.
This reviewer’s exposure to blacksmiths is primarily limited to those at Dollywood, but apparently, good ones should be treasured; that’s the topic of “Noumou Foli,” a song dedicated to the blacksmiths of Mali. But then, there’s a song such as “Mido Yirima” that is relatable for anyone who’s been in love, about staying true in a relationship despite adversity and naysayers.
Poulo’s music career began when she was chosen to represent her village in a regional music contest, and although Poulo is now known regionally (and her mother’s co-wife is the notable Malian singer Inna Baba Coulibaly), Poulo Warali is her first album to be distributed internationally.
It’s one of those albums that after you hit “play,” you’re immediately drawn in and held within its grip until the album’s done. A rich fabric of sound engulfs the listener, with plucked notes from a hoddu (a lute, also known as the n’goni), a fluid guitar, a swift and delicately drifting flute and nourishing beats from a calabash.
Poulo’s voice is notably precise and deliberate; the nuances of her voice set her apart from amateurs, and although there’s still a folky quality, a good balance is struck so that the delivery is practiced yet not overwrought or too polished.
Even for those of us who don’t own livestock, Poulo Warali is an utterly engrossing, spirited album, marked with tight, woven melodies and Poulo’s striking, exuberant singing.