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Sometimes I operate under the illusion that I work as a model talent
scout. Musicians not only send me their CDs, but I get biopics and
pictures too, and always in B&W. I'm not really sure what I'm
supposed to do with these things, but I guess I can start making
a scrapbook out of all this stuff so that some day when I'm old
and senile, throwing broken-up Alka-Seltzers to the pigeons in the
town square (or if I'm still in the Springs, heroin needles to the
ground squirrels in Acacia Park), with the battered, age-worn copy
of my scrapbook conspicuously tucked under my crooked arm, I can
accost some young teens on their way to the mega-multi-plex and
show them how I used to write about music from bands that nobody
ever heard of. Assuredly, the whole exercise will bring me to tears,
or at least a frothing rage, whereby, this terrified (and spectacularly
overweight) lump of flesh will develop a slight quiver in his upper
lip when he realizes that he won't escape the icy grip of my withered
craw, and that he is going to have to spend an entire afternoon
away from his Super Ultra X-Box II with someone who smells like
sour milk and is arguably a billion years old. In this scrapbook,
he will come across a singer-songwriter from Brooklyn whose body
is too small for his head. It may be the only time he ever sees
someone whose ass is not 40 times larger than his head. The crushing
blow will come when this abscess of big-macian excess turns his
bloated, balloon-shaped head quizzically up at me and says, "What's
music?" (By then, "music" will be nothing more than
strings of hacked and stolen samples, all cobbled together.)
Dear, sweet, Jesus, make sure the squirrels and I do a bang up
job of disposing of his smooth, gargantuan body.
So, here's the part where I responsibly dispense with my duties
as a critic, between bouts of making fun of fat kids and over-wrought,
consumption-driven pop-trash from the future…
People like Tim Williams embody the very personal nature of
music. A guy, on his own, pouring his heart into what he writes and
plays; the singer-songwriter is the picaresque anti-hero of the music
biz. For they are proof that you need not become part of the big-label
(or even the indie-label) industry in order to make a modest, but
respectable living as an artist. Sure, it's hard work, and let's face
it, he probably won't get rich or famous off of it. However, the advent
of the Internet has been a windfall for these working-class types
of the music world. The "modest living", has somewhat replaced
the "meager existence" of the old archetype of the starving
artist.
The Refrain is a good introductory platform for Williams'
music. He employs a wide breadth of instruments to demonstrate his
musical range, and to inject variety into this EP. The first song,
"Cave In" is undisputedly the centerpiece of the work, a
driving, acoustic guitar song with as much edge and angst as this
reedy musician is likely to muster. It has a wispy, yet soulful chorus,
and manages to seamlessly integrate glockenspiel AND electric piano
interludes into it; unexpectedly so, but not out of place. The rest
of the EP showcases greater musical depth, mood manipulation, and
pacing amidst the thematic backdrop of relational disquiet. Realistically
though, these songs need to be part of a larger album. The collection,
as it stands, is in need of at least 2 more forceful songs to get
the listener's blood flowing again. Quiet, introspective songs are
all well and good, but even the well-crafted ones can still put you
to sleep if too many are strung in succession. I'd like to hear his
forthcoming LP when it's released, since my review is only a half
measure of what feels like half of an album.
Not to mention, I've already written more than I should have for
an EP, even if most of it was me just screwing around.
-JD
Track Listing:
1. Cave In
2. Hard To Let Go
3. Give It Up
4. Leaving You
5. Ups
6. Fine Without You
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Tim
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