 Andy Prieboy I would not be at all surprised if this album, in fifty years, is revealed to be one of the most important albums of all time. And at the same time, I would not be surprised either if this album is utterly forgotten and never referred to except in the "related artists" footnote to the one-paragraph entry for Concrete Blonde in the 2050 edition of The Rough Guide to 20th Century Rock Music. Prieboy, former Wall of Voodoo member and L.A.-based solo musician, made an anti-splash with this 1990 debut album, except among the few hundred people who bought it. I have no point of reference to say whether this album is known or unknown but I can say that it got some serious airplay in certain circles, at least in my own bubble world. The album suffers from some L.A. slickness (some fairly empty guitar wankin'; some overly tight "one guy singing all the parts" harmonies) but shows a ton of originality despite the showiness. It's quite likely that Prieboy believed he was making a very accessible pop album, but like Michael Penn, it's doubtful that he could do that even if he really concentrated on it. Upon My Wicked Son is about half very-good and half so-so, but it never gets bad and in some places really shines. The "big track" here is the original version of "Tomorrow Wendy," truly Prieboy's "My Way," and turned into something of a cult hit by Concrete Blonde. That song was so big to me at the time it's weird for me to look back with some perspective and realize that it was never actually a "big song." But it's a very great song, and will probably turn out to be a "Pale Blue Eyes" for the next generation, or five generations after that. A slightly overwraught meditation on death, AIDS, prostitution, God, and suicide, it's definitely a song ripe for rediscovery. Both Prieboy and Concrete Blonde missed the boat by peaking about four years too early … they could have been pretty damn huge post-Nirvana. The album kicks off with the weakest songs, a drivin' (not a compliment) cover of "On the Road Again" followed by a rockin' (not a compliment) piece of edginess called "To the Dogs." Track three is the single (!) "Montezuma Was a Man of Faith." Eight ensuing years have erased the logic by which this was chosen as a potential single, although it's an alright, rollicking little song. "Montezuma" leads into "Tomorrow Wendy" which features the always welcome vocal chops of Johnette Napolitano – it's her epic, too. "Nearer to Morning" has a similar problem to many of the songs: it's a basically good song dressed up in what were probably intended as "cool" guitar effects and obvious drum machine emulation of a "real drum set." Prieboy is much better served on the tracks where he explores sampling and electronic backbeats that don't pretend to be anything else. That's where I think the ingeniuty of the record lies – Prieboy is one of the very few musicians who has ever really tried to use sampling as a songwriting tool, and it serves him well on tracks like "Joliet" and "That Was the Voice." The former uses an old 78 as the basis for a great-ass song that presages stuff like the Squirrel Nut Zippers and White Town by almost a decade. "That Was the Voice" actually uses the sampled voice of Adolf Hitler ("provided by the powers of hell") to make a statement about hate crimes – ballsier than Negativland on a good day. Unfortunately, Upon My Wicked Son doesn't take many such risks overall, and seems like it can't decide whether to be dark, comic, or cool. It gets a little of all of those. "The New York Debut of an L.A. Artist (Jazz Crowd)" is a humorous condemnation of pretentious idiots, featuring the great line: "Don't even mention Miles Davis, man, Miles Davis sold out – selling motor scooters, said a writer from the Reader – he needed the cash, he needed the cash, his new record's trash, the guy can't blow."Decide what you think about that line and you'll know whether or not this album is for you. "Man Talk" is another semi-comical tune, and is easily the worst song on the album. "Loving the Highway Man" is a great one, featuring the immortal lyric: "Damned, damned, damned I am/For loving the highway man." This song is actually more affecting and genuine than "Tomorrow Wendy," and would probably make the best cover for whoever wants to make a crusade out of Andy Prieboy. "For Love" is the official closer, a slight but enjoyable song, followed by two "bonus tracks" – "Maybe That's Not Her Head" and "Big Rock Finish." "Maybe That's Not Her Head," supposedly from a light opera called "It's Not the Heat, It's the Humanity!" is one of the most raucous bits of craziness ever put in the context of a rock album. This one gives the boys in Ween and They Might Be Giants a run for their money, and in fact makes you sort of wish Prieboy had made this a straightahead comedy album. A silly melange of Gilbert & Sullivan and Rodgers & Hart, with absurdist lyrics and improbable "characters" ("I'm an aged Turkish man/Am I correct to understand/I came all the way from Turkistan/And maybe that's not her head?!"). It would seem like a good "Simpsons" out-take if it weren't recorded pre-"Simpsons." "Big Rock Finish" is a lighthearted closer, more or less about a plane crash. A bit too "serious" after the zaniness it follows, but a great last track. I still get a chuckle out of it, in between tedious guitar solos. Call me on this one in a year … I'll probably either add a li'l puppy or take one away. This may yet turn out to be a huge cult album, although I don't know who will spearhead the charge. I'm probably in the top 1 percentile of fans of this album, and I feel pretty ambivalent about it.
Review by Howlin' Mountbatten |