Danielson: "Time That Bald Sexton"

Daniel Smith’s got that tornado craw; his wind-system is merciless to say the least. Excruciating to say the most. But what Smith’s been unable to do up until now — “now” being the May release — is control the terrific power of his divisive vocals. Brother:Son got close, the rest of the Famile scuttling to dampen and rectify the tumbling frame of their leader’s lofty imagination. Before this, the Tri-Danielson Project was confusing enough to curdle less forgiving listeners’ patience, like Zaireeka but with that voice, that fevery meow of hellish register, and even with Albini’s paring help, emerging millennially as a tad overwhelming. But now, NOW, Br. –son has tempered the debilitating grandeur of his ramshackle scope into something, erm, more tending towards compelling Brechtian surreality. “Time That Bald Sexton” is the singer’s admission of his voice’s unnatural, even disturbing, nature, begging the listener to reevaluate Smith’s extremes as vicious melodic tools.

His arsenal isn’t all that deep: a dainty acoustic guitar soils the surprisingly uncluttered opening; a staccato electric guitar (DEEERRRHOOOFFF!..?) trips daisy, following a demure Danielson as he hops down from falsetto and then back on top again. And then a cymbal means business, means chugging euphony, thick with horns and faint with xylophones, that courses through a fat riff, a fat riff that takes lessons from Danielson’s hopscotch. Taking a step back, the track mimics everything flaunted in Smith’s first bars, jumping ecstatically from stippled space to surging post-rock verve. Aiming high. Like pummeling a clock. Like a devastating, heroic battle with Time. With motherfucking Time, y’all.

Listen to the man. Smith seems to have realized the sword in his words, has hit his stride with something so intensely personal, and uncharacteristically simple, that it’s only fitting that the focus of Ships is in the community. Let him teach you how to enjoy his voice, how to understand something as the product and progenitor of ostensibly goofy pop. If you don’t get it, it’s not his fault. Now, that’s Christian if I’ve ever heard it.