|
|
50 of 56 people found the following review helpful:
4.0 out of 5 stars
Elusiveness? Tom has it nailed., May 28, 2002
In the third chapter of "Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There," Alice strays into a forgetful forest, in which everything loses its name. There she meets a fawn, and they wander companionably until they come to a clearing, whereupon the Fawn remembers what fawns and human girls are, and it bounds away in fear. Carroll was obsessed and desolated by the innocence lost with childhood, and here, just for a moment, his creation Alice mirrors his desolation, disclosing an even more irretrievable innocence lost before childhood."Alice," Tom Wait's cycle of theater songs from 1992, about the time he was producing "Bone Machine," captures that desolation and bottles it in a ghostly, smoky glass. The album offers, in the same package, what are probably Waits's most emotionally accessible music, and most intellectually inaccessible lyrics. (The latter may be partly because the songs were written for multiple characters in an opera, and it's hard to disentangle them when they're all rendered by one singer. That's why I feel unable, yet, to go from four and a half to five stars: Unlike most of his best material, these songs don't sound designed for Tom's voice.) I know this album will be getting more play from me than its companion release, Blood Money. The pleasures of the latter all lie on its surface. Its point of view is monochrome, uniformly cynical, and easily fathomed (appropriately enough, since that matches the worldview of Woyzeck - each of these two song cycles serves its own theater piece well), while "Alice" is nacreous, balancing the tenderness and reality of Carroll's unachievable love with the ominous sense of mortality and defilement that haunt it. That album is grand posturing by a gleefully evil minded carnival barker; this one is authentic exploration, both of the deep currents in Lewis Carroll's two masterpieces, and of the human condition. One possible reading of the plot would run this way. "Alice" sets the metascene, the relationship between the teller and the beloved told-to. "Everything You Can Think" sets the scene, via a railway carriage ride (shades of Sylvie and Bruno!) into Looking-Glass land. Then come two arias sung looking back from Alice's old age. First Alice (who is a flower, specifically a lily) sings a lament that "no one puts flowers on a flower's grave." Carroll, already engraved ("the moon is full here every night"), sings an answering lament and plea - and warning ("Live me golden tell me dark/Hide from Graveyard John"). The flashforward ends. A sudden, blitzkrieg uptempo slams us into a nightmarish Dreamland: "Kommienezuspadt" is the manic white rabbit's advice, half in German, half in gibberish, to be on time. "Sei punktlich" - be punctual - he howls, with all the insistence of Prussian clockwork. We meet several more denizens of this crazed underworld in the next four numbers. The Caterpillar from his shroomtop croons the Armstrong ballad "Table Top Joe"; the Mad Hatter and March Hare ("We're All Mad Here") do a creditable impersonation of those Graveyard Johns that Alice should have been hiding from. We get images of Alice's grown-up sexuality , light ("Watch Her Disappear") and dark ("Reeperbahn"). Then two Platonic, cosmically lonesome ballads, from Alice again ("I'm Still Here"), and from a sympathetic sailor in a bar. In "Barcarolle", things get more nameless than ever. Alice becomes both "you" and "she"; Carroll becomes both "you" and "a man she kissed on a train." Are we dealing with Carroll's obsession now, or Waits', or the listener's? And no sooner has the singer declared to Alice "I belong to you", than she breaks away, suddenly restored to awareness and fear, and leaves him forever desolate at the edge of the forest clearing (the final instrumental "Fawn".) Well anyway, that's my take. But as Mac the Knife once said, "Anders geht es auch."
|