New Yorker's second showcases his promise...
The biggest obstacle threatening to limit one’s enjoyment of Mike Bones’ second solo album is not, as bizarrely noted in critiques elsewhere, the man’s fine chest hair as exhibited on the record sleeve. This writer doesn’t take a look at a cover and conclude that the music contained therein is worthy of a three-star review. Nor does he waste paragraphs badmouthing the cheapness of said imagery. No. Whoops.
No – the biggest obstacle is that sense that it’s all been heard before. It’s in the New Yorker’s voice, that echo of similarly emoting songwriters whose material has an audience already. Tim Casher, Dan Sartain, even Conrad Keeley – in Bones’ tones (oh, ha ha) there’s sound-alike elements which prove distracting. Suddenly his words get lost, thoughts turning to which Cursive song ‘Give Up On Guitars’ most resembles. Or is it The Good Life? Wait, who’s this again…?
Which is, it must be said, a shame – played enough (I reckon three and a half times), ‘A Fool For Everyone’ achieves some semblance of its own identity. It’s there in Bones’ lyrics, as he doesn’t so much wear his heart on his sleeve than pull it out and present it to the listener on a silver plate. “My soul’s a secret place / But by now it’s known to your eyes” – there’s beauty in such lines, and throughout Bones – born Mike Strallow – reveals his innermost feelings without stumbling into cliché.
Lead single ‘What I Have Left’ – get the Gang Gang Dance remix HERE – is the album’s standout, a song accepting loss as the result of actions ill-advised. Here the instrumentation swells to a rare climax, strings adding emotional weight to the plaintive lines: “My soul was once blessed, but it didn’t take I guess / So I’ll deal with what I have left.”
Despite attracting plaudits as a guitarist for a handful of local acts prior to embarking on a solo career, Bones’ lyrics are clearly this record’s foremost selling point – as an arranger he’s perfunctory, acceptably astute without much in the way of real flair; but the words that spill from his poisoned pen are, at times, most compelling. And it’s this aspect of his art that facilitates comparison with Sartain – the Alabama rocker’s not written an original riff in his life, but his confessionals are absorbingly candid.
Whether this is enough to keep Bones in the spotlight – all things being relative, a double-A powered torch in a scummy Brooklyn basement – remains to be seen, but there is promise here assuming you give it the necessary time to appear. But it’s a long way from fully realised yet.
No – the biggest obstacle is that sense that it’s all been heard before. It’s in the New Yorker’s voice, that echo of similarly emoting songwriters whose material has an audience already. Tim Casher, Dan Sartain, even Conrad Keeley – in Bones’ tones (oh, ha ha) there’s sound-alike elements which prove distracting. Suddenly his words get lost, thoughts turning to which Cursive song ‘Give Up On Guitars’ most resembles. Or is it The Good Life? Wait, who’s this again…?
Which is, it must be said, a shame – played enough (I reckon three and a half times), ‘A Fool For Everyone’ achieves some semblance of its own identity. It’s there in Bones’ lyrics, as he doesn’t so much wear his heart on his sleeve than pull it out and present it to the listener on a silver plate. “My soul’s a secret place / But by now it’s known to your eyes” – there’s beauty in such lines, and throughout Bones – born Mike Strallow – reveals his innermost feelings without stumbling into cliché.
Lead single ‘What I Have Left’ – get the Gang Gang Dance remix HERE – is the album’s standout, a song accepting loss as the result of actions ill-advised. Here the instrumentation swells to a rare climax, strings adding emotional weight to the plaintive lines: “My soul was once blessed, but it didn’t take I guess / So I’ll deal with what I have left.”
Despite attracting plaudits as a guitarist for a handful of local acts prior to embarking on a solo career, Bones’ lyrics are clearly this record’s foremost selling point – as an arranger he’s perfunctory, acceptably astute without much in the way of real flair; but the words that spill from his poisoned pen are, at times, most compelling. And it’s this aspect of his art that facilitates comparison with Sartain – the Alabama rocker’s not written an original riff in his life, but his confessionals are absorbingly candid.
Whether this is enough to keep Bones in the spotlight – all things being relative, a double-A powered torch in a scummy Brooklyn basement – remains to be seen, but there is promise here assuming you give it the necessary time to appear. But it’s a long way from fully realised yet.
Mike Bones
