Having been told by the artists that Bitter Tea is more of a "pop" record, a counterpart to Rehearsing My Choir, which was recorded just prior and features a similar approach to instrumentation, many critics and listeners were taken aback once they heard this recent release from the prolific brother-sister duo, The Fiery Furnaces. Indeed, in the number of parts and the complexity of their arrangement, Bitter Tea's songs are not considerably different from those of Choir or Blueberry Boat. Until one considers the lyrics. Even compared to those on their debut, Gallowsbird's Bark, these songs are models of concise expression of thought in the form of song. The first track, "In My Little Thatched Hut," largely consists of two different refrains, with only a short distinct verse later in the song to break the to-and-fro, this later verse having been anticipated when its first line ("in the meantime I cry") served as the last line of the second refrain; the second track, "I'm in No Mood," is simpler, again with two refrains, both short, with only tiny variations in their repetition. The following tracks, forming the core of the record ("Black-Hearted Boy," "Bitter Tea," "Teach Me Sweetheart," "I'm Waiting to Know You," and "The Vietnamese Telephone Ministry") are not so terse, but still avoid the narrative approach of much of their previous work. "Teach Me Sweetheart," a rare track in that Eleanor Friedberger contributes to the lyric, particularly stands out, with its vaguely disturbing images of in-laws demanding the narrator "spill [her] blood." Despite Eleanor's formal contributions here and to "Benton Harbor Blues," and her sole authorship of the lyric of "Police Sweater Blood Vow," Matthew Friedberger is the composer here; and gives us many poignant moments describing the travails of romance and various misadventures experienced by the narrator. (Eleanor's informal composer-role, that of the singer who gives voice to the words of another, is nonetheless arguably the central attraction of The Fiery Furnaces; as M. Friedberger's recent solo double-disc makes too-abundantly clear, his songs by themselves, sung by him, would hardly compel at all.) "The Vietnamese Telephone Ministry" ends with the singer going to ridiculously-named churches, like the St. Innocent Orthodox and Jesus in Delight (which could be real places - I wouldn't put anything past our present-day loons masquerading as the born-again), and as such takes into the narrative portion of the record ("Oh Sweet Woods" and "Borneo") thankfully not lasting long - as, compared to Blueberry Boat's dizzying heights, they are pithy. Yet, one wouldn't want to do without the comedic relief of "Oh Sweet Woods," with its "two extra-blond short-sleeve button-down white-shirt blue-tie mystery Mormons" kidnapping the protagonist in order to balance her check-book, organize her receipts, and itemize her expenses.

The record's dark humor extends to the backward vocals which pop up throughout, especially on "The Vietnamese Telephone Ministry" and "Nevers." More often sung by Matthew - who otherwise takes on vocal duties even less than before - they evoke an especially menacing aura. In repeating what Eleanor has sung [though perhaps not always... with a Dr. Sample and patience, one could find out] the annoying, disquieting feel of backward-effects provides a cold, detached commentary on the longing and woe she expresses. When she sings, in "My Little Thatched Hut," of the "tears of joy" that will come when the lover she pines for finally returns, the backward voice mockingly recants the phrase, turning it to gibberish. As I noted in the first part of our 2006 review, the common complaints about these backward vocals have not commented upon much beyond their very presence. Nonetheless, outside the core of the record noted above, M. Friedberger's compositions do tend to wear, especially the concluding "Whistle Rhapsody," an ornery piece with Matthew singing lead that should have just been excluded.

Meanwhile, with her second album, Ys, harpist and singer Joanna Newsom has for now taken the place of The Fiery Furnaces as the exemplary practitioner of the story-song. Ys is one of those rare works that captivated this listener thoroughly, before having the chance to take on a critical perspective. But, alas, the chance has come (but what has ended?)... Those who find Newsom's voice annoying, assuming that they, if singing so much, with such passion, would somehow sound "normal," will have to pass quickly, finding other ways to repress themselves. While with only a few repeated listens, the structures of the songs come to light, the vocal performances are not so easy to pin down. The minute textures, the gradations of shade and emphasis, animating the rapturous sonic gestures emanating from Newsom's mouth and throat are seemingly endless. Thankfully then, Steve Albini recorded them. Van Dyke Parks's orchestral score generally avoids the trite and hackneyed, but one cannot help but want to hear Albini's initial recordings of the harp and vocals unadorned. This album is a striking change from The Milk-Eyed Mender; since works of such complexity as Ys tend to keep the listener at bay, blissfully unaware of any deeper meaning, reveling in the sensory experience, we cannot help but wonder what could have lay in between the two albums. Then again, we have "Sawdust and Diamonds," the third track, which is just Newsom and her harp; and the different versions arising from the relatively simple set-up of her performances. More important, Parks's contribution avoids the trite and hackneyed precisely because it comes in fits and pieces, rarely providing a regular beat. In other words, all of the other instrumentalists are submissive to Newsom's voice and harp.

The refrain about meteorites, meteors, and meteoroids, appearing early in "Emily," and then once again at the conclusion, is not just the focal-point of this opening track; it is also symbolic of the obsessive attention to detail and structure impelling songs of such breadth. The narrator says the refrain is a mnemonic device ("I promised you I'd set them to verse so I'd always remember"). Like the Breton myth of an island-city that succumbed to flood which inspired the album, this lyric refers to, or at least allows the listener to dwell upon, pre-modern times. For, until the rise of printing, memory was the be-all and end-all of learning; without it, no matter how much information one took in, soon it would all dissipate back out, and one would revert to an ignorant state. Not only epic poetry, which of course comes to mind when listening to Ys, but also the rules of grammar and other regimented systems of learning... all were likely to be transmitted in the form of verse and/or set to music, so that they could more easily be remembered.

Perhaps for any given songwriter, the editing process out of which come finished songs also serves as the act of discerning which of his memories will last. Taking on new form, they leave the hazy realm of thought where they can easily be lost. We can only begin to fathom the myriad of events and thoughts that inspired Ys. In the recent Wire article on Newsom, she discounts the notion that the album's cover-painting can be tied to the past - that distant pre-Enlightenment, pre-industrial past we have ever-greater difficulty imaging - not because the painting does not refer to older styles, but because it is also of modern times: for example, the airplane trail in the sky. Since that article also notes that "Emily" is the artist's sister, the same rule applies to the lyrics. In that song, images and tales of decadence and decline alternate with entreaties to the song's namesake and heartening memories of the past. The rest of the tracks seem - at least so far - more mysterious; meshes of incidents recalled, and then described or interpreted anew; or perhaps, in "Monkey and Bear," transformed into what we could call the singer's re-telling of a longer, fuller story previously told. "Only Skin" we can imagine is a literary re-enactment of the wildly disparate scenes and ideas which follow one another, seemingly illogically, when one day-dreams - a "day-dream," that is, often being the brief losing-track of the pattern of one's thoughts. With this track in particular, the fitting precedents for Ys are perhaps Robert Ashley "operas" (such as Private Parts) rather than the work of any songwriter. Nonetheless, Ys is a singular achievement that deserves even greater attention and acclaim than it has received, and most likely will over time attract a cult-like following like that of "classic" Rock albums of yester-year (such as the Rock "opera" albums of M. Friedberger's inspiration, The Who); while once popular music in general courted and received reverence and was the subject of much anticipation for the future, now we reserve such attention to individual artists.

Jarvis Cocker, the Pulp frontman who was in the previous decade arguably the undisputed champion of putting words - a lot of words - to song, made a comeback of sorts in 2006, with The Jarvis Cocker Record. No longer backed by the gargantuan backing band Pulp was - lest we forget the droning minimalist layers characteristic of their peak, especially Different Class - Cocker nonetheless avoids verbosity. Indeed, this record serves as another step, following the final Pulp records, This Is Hardcore and We Love Life, away from the narrative-method of their predecessors, His 'n' Hers and Different Class, the albums that made him famous (in Britain). While stories still figured on Hardcore and Life, on this solo album we only get excerpts from potential longer texts, a satisfying difference, enhancing the ambiguity and thus contextual space they inhabit; the music, considerably more sparse and at times almost drab compared to Pulp, allows the words to command the attention it turns out, upon close reading, they deserve.

The melody of "The Loss Adjuster," whose "Excerpt 1" and "Excerpt 2" serve as the album's introduction and penultimate track, respectively, seems like a slight variation upon the simple guitar line that runs throughout "Roadkill," the penultimate track of We Love Life. Pulp's disbanding, amicable as it may have been, was certainly a loss, and is perhaps meant to be commented upon here. Either way, loss is this record's theme; it pervades every song, as our singer ponders that one moment of inspiration when his personal trajectory seemed to match with the world around him ("Black Magic"), a lover who has gone ("Heavy Weather") but who may return ("Baby's Coming Back"), childhood fantasies ("Disney Time"), and his life itself ("Fat Children"). "Tonite" speaks of drunken revelry, apparently the only thing the narrator has left to look forward to; and yet he does so with guarded optimism.

The nature of our losses grows more complex with "From Auschwitz to Ipswich." Presumably, Ipswich was chosen because of its anonymity relative to Auschwitz. Yet, with the recent infamous murder there of five prostitutes, we see a link to the Nazi extermination camp. How might they be "the same"? As far as this listener is concerned, both the massive crime of the Shoah, of world-historical importance, and the minor, recent crime of Ipswich, surely soon to be forgotten, suggest - no, demand - the existence of deviant members of society, those who are in the way of a fantastical future state of perfection, and thus must be disposed of. And of course, with the line that opens and closes the song ("'They want our way of life,' Well, they can take mine anytime they like") Cocker refers to the current obsessive desire of many otherwise-likable people around the world to kill "terrorists," the latest in a long series of Others proclaimed to be the enemy of our governments and civilization. The narrator's phrasing is fitting when he says, "Evil comes I know from not where. But if you take a look inside yourself - maybe you'll find some in there." For (to put meaning where Cocker probably did not intend) to say that evil is from "not where," you could be saying not that you don't know its origin, but rather that its origin is the act of asking the question itself. In other words, evil does not come from the "where" our imperialist do-gooders designate, but from the position of leadership itself, insofar as it entails engaging in ideological denunciations of foreign individuals and societies merely for being foreign. As such, Cocker ideally would have made clear that the "we" he speaks of in the song, "going the same way" as the Roman empire, is the West (namely, the Christianized civilization that insured and leeched off of Rome's slow demise, not including Slavic or Semitic cultures, despite all the present-day talk of at least the former being part of some vague "west"). Only in this historical West do the warriors, but more likely the arm-chair intellectuals, seem overwhelmingly preoccupied with finding an absolute, undeniable, final evil, foxing it out of its hole; and then, curiously, finding another absolute, undeniable, final evil, and another... We won't fret over Cocker's lack of thoroughness too much though, for we should not try to find philosophical meaning of such significance in a song: that interdisciplinary art where, as we have discussed elsewhere in Sweet Pea, the demands of prose are submitted to artistry of singers and instrumentalists. Indeed, only in a song would we find the macabre one-liner disposing of the scene described as such: while the narrator orders food from an Indian restaurant, a terrorist attack occurs; he is spared, while "others went to an early grave: got stoned. Yeah, I went out and got stoned."

The conclusion of the album proper [unless one counts the "hidden" track, "Running the World," which with its refrain, "Cunts are still running the world," could send us off into another discussion of art, ethics, and politics, this time centered on sexism - though a discussion that is plausible only in America, where use of the word, "cunt," unfortunately still reeks of a certain beyond-the-pale impropriety it lacks in Britain] "Quantum Theory," revisits the theme of lost goals, as Cocker sings that a better, greener-grass world does not exist, at least not beyond thoughts which remain unique to each individual, and as such could never bring about a final happiness of anyone but that individual when actually made into physical acts, statements, policy. An unlikely pairing of the phrases, "everyone is happy," and, "fish do not have bones" (both scenarios occurring in a "parallel dimension, happening now but not within your sight") is the same point stated indirectly. Yet it suggests another point: that the revelations discussed here are mundane, and hopefully one had fun listening in spite of the oppressive seriousness that has increasingly characterized Cocker's work. Yes, we did have fun; like Cat Power's The Greatest earlier in 2006, a relatively traditionalist approach to popular song - often dark and foreboding songs, moreover - has given us an endearing record, solace in a time when as always there is too much talk of revolution, and too much young blood to be squirted, spilled, and splayed. If only our "leaders" could, like Cocker, take a look at themselves on the page [not the mirror... we'll spare them that grisly sight] and write over and over again, like a punished child at the chalkboard, that "God knows - I know I ain't living right: I'm wrong. I know I'm so wrong" ...

While The Fiery Furnaces and Joanna Newsom probably set new records for words-put-to-song with Blueberry Boat and Ys, respectively, the move away from youthful bursts of pent-up energy, of delving deeply into the possibilities of one's art, offers much for the artist and the listener, even as it inevitably curtails the listener's desire to create for himself. If "From Auschwitz to Ipswich" encapsulates one's thoughts about a number of socio-political problems, does it not then encourage passivity, or unemotive re-cant? We do then run the risk of erring in the same way our "leaders" do: playing god not with the materials of different art-media, but with fellow humans instead. The worst then is not to disagree terribly with your neighbor, but to agree with him too much, too often. Then, you will lose focus on your unique interests, in favor of social bonds, which despite their seeming strength soon fray when stretched too far, to include too many people. The enthusiasm and righteousness one felt about those bonds comes into question, jealousies arise directed at those you found to be too different, and so on... until, for example, a nation as wealthy and edified as the United States can reach such absurd states of misunderstanding with foreign nations that it descends to the deplorable behavior its government has displayed this decade, or in Nicaragua in the 1980's, or Vietnam and Cambodia in the 1960's and '70's. So, only tread out into the open rarely; keep to yourself for the most part - and your friends, your family, your town, where judgments are based on mutual experiences, not on conjectures and opinions. Fitting then, that M. Friedberger's songs written for his sister to sing have evolved to the point of Bitter Tea, focusing often on the unreliability of men, and sometimes on religion's similar uselessness. The Fiery Furnaces apparently got off of their Byzantine Blueberry Boat only to find much to bemoan. Meanwhile, Newsom remains up in the hills, observing the battles between the "signifiers" and the "signifieds" she sang of on "This Side of the Blue" from Milk-Eyed Mender. The only truth we hold to steadfast in society's morass, where the beholden is blurred and the tactile turns out to be muck, is that those who know the value of the "steady, illiterate movement homeward" are the only ones worth knowing.