The Automatik

In The Red Records, 2006

A metaphor is a breath of fresh air
A turn-on, an aphrodisiac
- Sparks, “Metaphor”

Of all the bands that I consider perennial favourites, Sparks hold the remarkable (and unequalled) position of The Band Who I Most Enjoy Liking. An essay I read recently, written around the time of Sparks’ last album (Lil’ Beethoven) encapsulates just what it is that is so steadfastly appealing about them: they are one of the most joyous bands ever.

For sure, they make me laugh more than anyone else does, with their unparalleled wit and charisma, both in lyrical and musical form. I would never dare call them something as abominable as the “thinking person’s pop band,” for that conjures images of a couple of boring, cleverer-than-thou assholes, although the Brothers Mael are definitely more clever than anyone else.

There is the eternal question of how a force like Sparks can even be considered “pop” when they are so far removed from what passes for popular these days that they may as well exist in another galaxy (and this holds true for their entire career, really). Hello Young Lovers, their most recent release, contains more of the same joy-inducing brilliance to which fans have become accustomed. But there’s something else, too.

I might as well admit to you now that I’ve been rather occupied with acquiring Sparks’ back catalogue on CD and I haven’t kept up with the last ten years’ worth of albums, so perhaps what I’m about to say will not come as a surprise to anyone but me. There are times on Hello Young Lovers when I feel, and I can’t even believe I’m typing this, touched and even moved.

Lemme sum up. No, that wouldn’t be fair. Lemme explain.

“Dick Around,” the opening track is an absolutely stunning, genre-smashing work of art. No exaggeration. It’s over six minutes long, but it’s so engaging it feels more like six seconds. It’s like The Love Song of Patrick Bateman (if such a thing existed) without all the gore. And smarter. Patrick would never use a word like “métier.” The contrasting shifts in tone – from wistful, overwrought violins to jaunty piano and then crushing guitar – are the inevitable counterpoint to a hysterical crescendo of vocals. Not hysterical “ha ha” but, hysterical as in excessive, uncontrolled emotions, like the id and the ego are in a cage match and we’ve got ringside seats. It’s funny and yes, clever, like all Sparks’ best songs, but there is an overwhelming sense of melancholy. Once again, I can’t believe that I’d ever use that word to describe music made by this band.

I am unable to shake this feeling, although “Perfume” is a lot more light-hearted in tone. We’ve got the piano again – and there’s no other way to say it, it’s just fucking debonair – contrasted with the heavy guitar and what I can only describe as prissy violins. It may seem lyrically lightweight, but oh, my friends, that is where Sparks are most deceptive and seductive. I think that is their charm and in fact, the point. (And I must confess that I take no small amount of pleasure in hearing Russell Mael recite the names of French perfumes in a rather sensual, throaty manner.)

So what am I to make of the “The Very Next Fight,” which I basically loathed the first couple of times I heard it? That is, until I had the line, “open displays of affection,” featuring a gorgeous vocal and Ron Mael’s practically decadent harpsichord, stuck in my head for an entire afternoon. There is no way to describe the effect this had on me. Plus, I’m confronted once more by this sense of melancholy and perhaps frustration? Bitter regret? It’s sort of blowing my mind, this confessional tone, layered as it is within the perfect soundtrack to what it feels like to be trapped in a vicious cycle of panic attacks and freak outs.

A feeling of détente is ushered in with the first genuine laugh-out-loud song on the album, “(Baby Baby) Can I Invade Your Country?” a triple entendre (or is that quadruple? I’ve lost count.) work of genius and the most accurate and surprising political commentary I’ve witnessed in a song in recent memory. Or perhaps ever. Anyone else who used The Star-Spangled Banner as the basis for a song about getting screwed (and screwed over) would – well, let’s face it, no one else would do this, especially not ensconced without a snatch of music that sounds more like Aaron Copland’s “Rodeo” than can possibly be coincidental.

“Rock Rock Rock” is oozing with Sparks deadpan humour and holds the key as to why this album, while decidedly amazing, is in no way “rocking.” The protagonist promises to rock us, but the song breaks this promise musically, bringing to mind Chuck Klosterman’s hilarious editorial about rock songs that aren’t about actively rocking (For instance, in 1989, I went to a casualty-free Great White concert, and they asked me – and all of Fargo, North Dakota, really – if we were “ready to rock.”). The stand-out lyric, and the most telling, is:

Soft passages, they get you into trouble
They imply a certain faux respectability

which is perhaps the most apt, not to mention, harsh criticism one can lobby against those types of “artists” who seem to have traded credibility and talent for daydreaming in the back of a Jaguar. (I’m just saying.) Sparks don’t rock per se, but in a way they rock harder than anyone else, if rocking can be used as a metaphor for ballsiness and superiority.

Speaking of metaphors, “Metaphor” is a nice one for erm, well, metaphors, particularly with the fake “rock banter,” in which the girls in the crowd are asked if they’re interested in any, in the same manner that a frat guy might ask if one is “up for jello shots tonight.” Still, it’s not all fun and frivolity, because that now-familiar ennui creeps back in the line:

Use them wisely, use them well
And you’ll never know the hell of loneliness

as the last word is set apart from the others with just a soupçon of knowing sadness.

Yet, the next three songs give me cause to wonder if perhaps the Mael brothers don’t want to bring us down too much. And that’s possibly my only complaint about the album. “Waterproof” details a Lothario whose imperviousness to his girlfriend’s tears backfires when Niagara Falls dries up in his presence (which causes some speculation in my mind about “yours til Niagara Falls”). It has frenetic vocals and a break at the end that sounds like Sparks circa 1974, which is highly enjoyable, but serves to remind us how much this band has evolved in the last thirty-plus years.

“Here Kitty” is the story of cats who serve as a dating service for single women, with more double entendre (that I’m sure I don’t have to explain to you). The rather confusing and somewhat slight “There’s No Such Thing As Aliens” is less of attempt to put on a brave face than mild annoyance that the aliens simply aren’t showing up.

Sparks have always been ersatz tightrope walkers, teetering on the brink between low concept and high concept, transforming the banal into the sublime (“Lost and Found” and “Equator” come to mind) and devising tales that could only spring from their own twisted minds. As Russell himself said about “Girl From Germany,” and I quote, “To my knowledge, no other bands were dealing in the same subject matter at the time.”

This is precisely the situation in “As I Sit Down To Play The Organ At the Notre Dame Cathedral,” with a title long enough to make Morrissey feel a pang of envy. Can you think of any band who would craft a seven-minute opus about an organist who is tired of playing second fiddle (so to speak) to God and eternally hopes that a horny, agnostic tourist will show up to Mass so that he can seduce her? Me neither.

The song seems a bit ridiculous and superfluous at first, but like all good Sparks songs, irritation eventually gives way to appreciation and the undeniable sensation of looking forward to hearing the damn thing, with Russell’s beautiful repeats of “Hallelujah” and the ridiculous organ (and the idea of Ron Mael playing with his organ is as amusing as it is titillating), to the point where I’m convinced that this is meant to be a metaphor for sex as a religious experience.

Other reviews of this album have spat out the words “teenaged” or “juvenile” with more than a little anger, which baffles me, as the dark and hilarious places these songs explore are definitely beyond the ken of that age group. And since pop music has always been the domain of teens, I don’t know if Sparks can be considered true pop music since they aren’t as technically popular as what appears on the Billboard charts. The Mael brothers have a unique gift for creating songs that don’t seem catchy or radio-friendly, but which remain ever-firmly lodged in your head and heart, bringing endless joy with every listen.

There’s that word again, “joy.” The joy of Hello Young Lovers is not that Sparks are making me laugh, or making me think – although they have done both – but that they’re making me feel. And that is no metaphor.

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