Patrick Watson
Wooden Arms
Rating: 2.5/5.0
Label: Secret City
Like many unique artists, Patrick Watson likely sees things far differently than the average person. His band’s music suggests the world is some sort of alternate reality of whimsy and through-the-looking-glass fancy. As a pianist versed in classical composition, Watson uses traditional songwriting forms as a platform for breathy musings almost childlike in their conceptual scope. On the artist’s earlier releases, this was somewhat novel, if not particularly resonant. Hell, everybody likes to cater to one’s inner child every once in a while. So, Watson continues to brazenly walk that precarious tightrope between aesthetically pleasing filler and truly meaningful music. Wooden Arms takes this high-wire act to sonic and lyrical extremes. Fortunately for Watson, his passionate voice – sometimes trembling, sometimes whooping – is awfully hard to dislike, just so damn pretty throughout, that it’s hard not to give credit where it’s due.
Starting off with the elegantly simple “Fireweed,” Watson demonstrates how effective his emotionally stirring vocal delivery can be, especially when paired with otherwise minimalist music and production. As on many of Wooden Arms’s tracks, the band sounds like some art-school hybrid of Coldplay’s softer songs and Scott Walker’s aesthetic. In fact, Watson’s vocal style recalls both Chris Martin and the soaring croons of Jeff Buckley. This is complemented by stuttering percussion, plodding melodies and delicate instrumentation. The general effect here is a pleasing playfulness, full of light strumming, twinkling piano, airy vocals and fantastical lyrics.
This style takes a turn for the worse when Watson’s penchant for unusual percussion refuses to mesh with his soft dances and otherwise pure-sounding musicality. “Tracey’s Waters” could have been a meditative folk-ballad with its angelic refrain, but instead feels unsettling due to its junkyard atmospherics. These out-of-place sounds suggest some sort of John Cage catastrophe, but instead only cause the track to limp along meekly. This experiment is neither disruptive enough to make a point or wonderful enough to substitute for stark sonic space. Fortunately, songs like the mid-album “Traveling Salesman” take these same building blocks and construct something closer to perfection; circus keyboard and dirty steel-guitar reflect the lyrical conceit, “Selling the distance between us and the sky.” Watson’s vocals alternate gracefully between a trembling whisper and a distorted groan reminiscent of the track’s angry trombone, a growling beast that spews bursts of sound here and there. But the track’s general minor-key tonality ties everything together, Watson embracing the song’s uneasy accents instead of letting them be an unpleasant guest.
That pattern of clever aesthetic choices butting heads with less successful – if well-intentioned – ones plays out over the course of Wooden Arms. Combined with the album’s childlike storytelling (including a song meant to grace the upcoming Where the Wild Things Are soundtrack) and lullabies, Watson continues to present us with music that’s pleasant while it lasts but doesn’t really linger. His style is both charming and heartwarming, and is definitely appropriate for the times shredding rock isn’t appealing, but it also doesn’t beat the best classical, folk and troubadour music it often recalls. In particular, the folk-styles could be more intense and his classical arrangements are so simple that they leave little room for depth. Too often, Watson’s lush vocals are mixed like a supplementary instrument when they should be front and center. The best tracks on Wooden Arms avoid these faults and are downright stunning. Unfortunately, these notable tracks don’t carry the whole album. Beauty is a funny thing; Watson proves it’s generally pleasant, but sometimes the preciousness of childhood fancy isn’t quite what adults want.
by Michael Merline
