Swan Lake: "Spanish Gold, 2044"

MercerWatch 2009

Here comes Swan Lake’s second album! To me what’s most important is that Carey Mercer’s finally poised to make plain two things: that he will never let up howling like a dying squirrel realizing that it will expire, painfully, alone, and that in comparison, singing backup, Dan Bejar sounds like a girl. This isn’t intended to cheaply mock Bejar, but that Mercer’s seeming relatively “manly” up against the unflagging wordiness of his songs and the effeminate posturing of his bandmates is enough to cast him in the Daddy role of this weird pop triptych. Maybe that’s why he’s been so prolific lately: to put food on the table. Stomach that with a fantastic and eviscerating Blackout Beach record just two months old and a probable Frog Eyes LP before 2009 comes to a close and we’re going to have to start drawing straws to see who gets to sit awake in seppuku-duty over the poor bastard while he sleeps. I’m not saying the guy’s suicidal, that the pressure’s getting to him, I just think accidents can happen when someone’s flirting this close to the edge.

Or at least that’s how it’s been sounding lately. For “Spanish Gold, 2044,” the opening track off Swan Lake’s sophomore Enemy Mine, Mercer continues to sell desperation as the sticky, fascinating core of his appeal. A lone cymbal echoes until it hangs like a creaking, behemoth chandelier overhead; Krug and Bejar and an unsurprisingly sonorous piano squeak and squabble from the corners, inching in to dominate the mix while Mercer shrinks and in turn bellows for his life. This survivalist mania is, of course, leavened with unnerving sexual asides (how he “left this bullwhip by the nightstand”) so that witnessing the song climax takes on too many misunderstood urges for the listener to comprehend in any way but feeling kinda weird. This, of course, is nothing new; neither is how simply the disparate, chewed-through pieces sift into one fuzzy hole through which we can sense a big, bountiful glimpse of unadulterated pop as five minutes come to a close. This is very cool and “Spanish Gold” pretty much rules, but “Bushels” did all that three times through and wasn’t even winded.

Mercer’s sounding winded. Or at least like time has finally caught up to him. It’s not something to mourn—though I’m a bit scared for him; his songwriting is really starting to crush him. But have you ever heard a man shriek for his life? For his manhood? Wait ‘til you hear the album’s closing “Warlock Psychologist.” Someone give this guy a hug.