You are hereReview Challenge 11/125: This album is about a radio, I think
Review Challenge 11/125: This album is about a radio, I think
Oh, Volta. Björk’s most…recent album. Do we really have to review this? Do you know I’ve been trying to review this album for, like, two years? Two frigging years? Not like this is Tristram Shandy—it’s not. Did you read that last sentence in a really snobbish art kid tone? Well, you should have, because if I was speaking to you, that’s how I would of said it.
Ten tracks, a bright red gatefold cover, a sticker, and some ridiculous photographs of crochet gone mad—what does Volta have to offer? Well, it’s got a lot of horns. You could call it a ‘horny’ record! Ba-dum-tish! Actually, that statement isn’t far off given Björk’s slant towards self-pleasure on her last two records—she’s gotten quite into the idea of ‘make art for oneself before making art for anyone else’. That idiom, though, is usually reserved for writers. Music is a more of a social art, and Björk’s tendency of late to serve herself first and foremost is not the most fitting attribute.
Take, for example, “Pneumonia”. Something about being a recluse, or something about something. k, thx for three great albums, bjork, see you in pagan heaven. It would be nice to have this review without blindly stupefied sarcasm, but Volta simply begs mockery. “Pneumonia” is as delicate, suspended in air, as is the “Anchor Song”, but its length and pretension—those fucking HORNS—debase its beauty beyond a quick skip-through of the song.
“Declare Independence” is Björk’s take on punk, which is dumb because Björk just fails at politics. “Vertebrae by Vertebrae” is an uninspired Björk singing over the same bellowing brass that appeared on “Hunter Vessel” from Drawing Restraint 9. “The Dull Flame of Desire”, a duet with Antony Hegarty, is far too long, and if I wanted seven minute songs with a female vocalist I’d take out one of my shoegaze records, not Björk. Am I getting my point across?
Sample this before purchase. Or, better yet, just get the songs worth any salt: “I See Who You Are” and “My Juvenile”. These are the most tender cuts of meat; the choicest rib. Everything else is grizzle, even the hoopla of “Earth Intruders” and “Innocence”. Though an admirable effort—no, no, forget that. Put out something that doesn’t suck, Björk. We pagan sprites are a picky bunch.
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