33 rebellions per minute
"In my house we see by Christmas lights and your TV, and that seems to be enough"
1998
Nields, PLAY
I grew up on folk songs, singing along with Mom's autoharp to Ian & Sylvia ("Four Strong Winds") and Tom Paxton ("Come Along Home", "the Marvelous Toy") and any number of highly attractive songs whose religious themes we both ignored because the words were pretty and fit just fine. Then, later, I learned to snarl along in a passable (albeit with a D-) imitation of Johnny Rotten's "Anarchy In The U.K.", and my self-identity changed. Since then, if I've somehow become interested in a folk album, I'll buy it for my Mom, as a present, because I of course am a ROCK fan; and then perhaps I'll sneak in a couple of listens of my own, just to see what the brighter lights of unhipness were up to. It's an unwise habit, I think, because Mom does enjoy the presents and keep them for herself, just as if they'd been presents or something. So even though the Nields are a Massachusetts band, who came to my attention doing backup vocals for Dar Williams (also of Massachusetts), I'd better review them now, in Mom's house, before I move to Massachusetts myself.
It's not, incidentally, that "folk" is a purely accurate descriptor of the Nields, and we'll get to that; but in a lot of ways it wouldn't matter if it was. The dominant element of their albums, at least for me (but also, objectively, as measured in volume), is the vocal harmonizing of Narissa Nields and her sister Katryna Nields. Their voices, at least up through their third album PLAY, have some seriously erratic moments. Whoever sings lead moves easily from an emotive drone-chant to the ambitious annexation of an entire musical scale for what, in the written text, is one syllable; from a giddy storytelling voice, like Natalie Merchant magically cured of her speech impediment and eager to celebrate, to a 10-year-old's frank proclamation of devotion, to a whoop not far removed from a yodel; from a slow, earnest country heartbreak voice, to the articulate dryness of Suzanne Vega, to a howl; from the haggardness of Kurt Cobain's "Lithium"/"In Bloom" verse narration to eager, flashily sustained high notes; from microphone distortion to campfire earnestness; from low orc chanting, to schoolgirl rhyming, to a singalong equivalent of a used-car ad, to massed rock'n'roll elation. But completely regardless of who sings lead how, the harmonist always circles around in instinctive counterpoint, helping out with the automatic familial knowledge you'd never expect anywhere other than in two sisters who pretty clearly grew up doing this every day. Their voices have, whatever they lack in precision, much of the same tonal warmth that makes it just _obvious_ to me that Dar Williams would go into folk singing, and that makes me suspect Tanya Donnelly (formerly of Belly) could've made millions as a country singer if her good taste hadn't gotten in the way of her vocal destiny. And actually, their voices are very precise about hitting the right notes; they're merely a little careless, perhaps, about which notes they sideswipe on the way.
Nerissa, the main songwriter, plays acoustic guitar, somewhere between Joan Baez and the Connells. Dave Chalfant, the producer, often contributes lap-steel guitar or a Byrdsy 12-string. All three players named "Nields" -- David Nields, occasional songwriter, is actually a husband, but surrendered his surname for a much more important cause than tradition -- contribute handclaps. So far, so quiet. "Easy People", no more overdriven even on the choruses than "Runaway Train", sounds exactly as should any opening song that starts "we sat around the table and drank a bottle of wine"; exactly as lovely as should any song that posits "I choose you to take up all of my time, I choose you because you're funny and kind" as the all-time obvious love lyric. "In The Hush Before The Heartbreak" is arranged to the probable satisfaction of Patsy Cline. "Last Kisses" has an unexpectedly clattering snare-drum and tambourine part, but otherwise plays mostly over a whispering upright bass and an oboe solo. "Nebraska" goes only from quiet country music to louder country music with a hymnal edge. "Innertube" is crooned and even features cello, the rhythm section's opening hints at jazz a bluff.
But the freedom of the Nields' remarkable harmonies is that the band can actually play whatever it feels like without failing to sound like a folky album by the Nields. "Snowman" and "Jennifer Falling Down" never force the jazz feints to go away. "Train"'s glammy electric guitar (by David Nields) reminds me of both Liz Phair's "Supernova" and a strangled version of "Money For Nothing". "Check It Out"'s choruses are as choppy as a fond Dead Milkmen satire of Rage Against the Machine. "Friday At The Circle K"'s synthesizer is bubbly enough for vintage B-52's. "Art Of The Gun" hits like Tom Petty's Heartbreakers in unabashed rock mode, and breaks down into "Nugehtfotra"'s squalling rock jam. "Georgia O"'s drums churn along to moments of brash Belly-ish guitar distortion. And "Tomorrowland"'s goofy album-closing ecstacy would hardly be the same without the crunching fake menace it starts with, or the firmness of the quarter-note timekeeping.
The music shifts are mostly in keeping with the lyrics; and the lyrics, smart and insightful, feel as much like shared old stories as any of the harmonies do. "Please send your horses and your men. Please send your very best lawyers and doctors to put me together again. I've spent my whole life falling down, from the stairs I've climbed to the boys I've found" -- and a nursery rhyme, tomboy athleticism, concern about "boys", and the need for lawyers are cobbled together across the decades without a hint of self-consciousness. "There hasn't been a train here for about 2000 years. Maybe there never was one, but the tracks are still there" -- grown-ups forget to wonder about things like that, grown-ups are too busy watching the passing lane for an opening on their way to work. "I fell in love the usual way, with a flat-eyed boy on a flat-bed truck. When the baby was born, he sent a card that said Good Luck and some flowers" -- children often forget how easily nature may force adulthood on them without further preparation. "I don't care about your lover, I won't make her go away" is a deliberate, and obviosuly doomed, attempt to bring a my-eyes-are-closed-so-you're-not-there denial to a collapsing marriage. Poster-idol hero worship for the painter Georgia O'Keefe sits three songs from a scene that starts "funny how this begins, holding court over a bottle of gin".
I guess I'm not sure how many families grow up this unself-consciously. I'm the only child of a single mother, and every friend I made before 10th grade moved away before we developed this level of teamwork. Maybe if I'd had sisters we would've just fought over possessions and sprayed glue and thumbtacks on each other's seats. And definitely I would've been able to afford fewer records when I was growing up. So it's a good thing I found these records, by this family, to keep me company.
2000
Nields, IF YOU LIVED HERE YOU'D BE HOME NOW
I hope the ending of that review above didn't sound bitter. It wasn't. I'm actually in a wonderful mood as part of a basically lovely-so-far year, but I did learn the lingo of bitterness long enough ago that I still know how to speak it. I remember -- as recently as January, when my application for Connecticut's Alternative Teaching Certification Program was turned down because I mistakenly scored in the 99th percentile on reading, math, writing, and social studies on the _written_ test when they really wanted the _computerized_ test -- a woe-is-me litany that insisted that any time I left any little gap in my plans for anything, God was going to drive a truck through it and smash everything open. Apparently I don't believe that any more, though. Apparently I feel happy enough with my accidental job (where my pay has risen 40% in a year, and where I'm now helping train new service reps), with my accidental Mormon bestfriend/ soon-to-be-kind-of-ex girlfriend, with my accidental home and my accidental reunited high school friends and my accidental addictive discovery of Instant Messenger (and the friends I've made there quite on purpose), that I'm willing to place trust in fate.
My quest to be employed as a community activist by Boston ACORN was a quick success; after a day in late June tagging along, I want the job and they want me. Housing was going to be tougher. I went to Boston ready to seek a room in the $400/month range or below. A few scans of ads convinced me that, come to really work the math, I could afford to pay $500/month without making worrisome lifestyle sacrifices. A few more looks around and I realized that hey, I like Ramen noodles, why was I thoughtlessly insisting that my diet for next year should include other things too? (Also, what's the point of having savings if I wasn't planning to draw them down?) As I left for a July 1st return to Iowa, I carried the phone number of Chris and Ryan, highly likeable guys whose place I'd visited on the way to the Greyhound station, who were willing to rent me a large room, plenty full of electrical sockets, for $540/month, as long as I announced "the check's in the mail" before anyone else handed a check over. My hesitation was that the place was a 20-minute walk from the nearest train station; on the other hand, it was actually in the Boston area, and I'd found no other guaranteed offers of that, and I wasn't going to have another chance to look around in person. A logical thought process would have calculated the odds and either 1) called them immediately when I got home, or 2) decided not to rent. My thought process decided "I'll wait to July 5th, then call. If it's still open, I was meant to rent there. If it's not, I wasn't". For whatever insane reason, I wasn't kidding.
The room, as of July 5th, had been rented. This left me with the obligation of looking for places at a distance, hoping to be rented to by an absolute stranger on the basis, I guess, of my charming e-mails and voice. And as of July 17th, my check is in the mail to secure a 12x13 room in Malden, 5 minutes from an Orange Line stop, for -- I can barely believe my luck -- $325/month. Fate just saved me around $2500 on the year. So, of course, did Tom J's willingness to like me unseen and to trust that I'd truly warned him of the worst things about having me as a roommate (mainly that I'm still playing rock music at 4 a.m., and that "neat" means "I know what's in which pile"). So, of course, did my faith that his warnings about the place, which seem harmless, are all there is to fear. I trust him; people with senses of humor who can discuss ACORN knowledgeably and supportively seem trustworthy to me. I know all sorts of grim things about human beings, but my experience -- call me an Iowan if you like -- has been that if you treat people nicely, and they're not "just doing their job", they will be nice back. It is also my belief, from experience, that remembering the times this rule worked is a much better way to be happy than remembering the times this rule didn't.
The Nields' previous albums, including PLAY, are playful in overall spirit, but have, by actual count, as many sad or resigned or self-disgusted songs as upbeat ones; they observe closely enough to tell both stories. The first obvious change in IF YOU LIVED HERE, then, is a switch to optimism as deliberate, purposeful, as my decision to let fate decide whether 20-minute walks to the T stop were something I should agree to tolerate. It's possible that the narrator of "Jeremy Newborn Street" is being stood up by a hoped-for new boyfriend, but it's a beautiful day and there's fascinating passersby to spend the time watching. "Wanting" is a song of finally admitting one is loved: "Tell me I'm beautiful, I promise I'll believe you this time". "This Town Is Wrong", directed to a girl who's "always been a good girl, smart girl, pretty girl", looks askance at the "big plans, beneficial programs" she's been given and urges her to go ahead and run off and form a band with the narrator.
"May Day Cafe" celebrates the friendship at a gathering place. "Caroline Dreams" would be sad -- if "if she doesn't wake up, won't her dreams come true? She'll be free" was sung with even a hint of the irony it logically should have. "Mr. Right Now" smacks of an abusive relationship, but is sung from the guy's perspective, which is an intriguing way to let the song be an energized rocker. "Jack The Giant Killer" submerges anger into a revenge fantasy. David Nields contributes two songs this album, both love songs, including one in which everlasting devotion and acceptance of aging are obvious, natural; and Nerissa writes one of those too.
And the last two songs, "Keys To The Kingdom" and the cast-of-dozens special-guest-starring "I Still Believe In My Friends", are flat-out anthems.
That's one obvious change. The second is that one of the Nields has made huge formal progress as a singer, so that, while the harmonies do still cartwheel, the lead vocals are a virtual ringer for Dar Williams (who guests on three tracks, and I can never recall which three because they _all_ seem to have her).
The third change, according to the Nields themselves, is that they went back and rediscovered their old Beatles records. This is blindingly obvious on the wonderful opener, "Jeremy...", which compiles originality out of "Getting Better" guitar strums, recorder solo, trumpet, a Paul McCartney music-hall chorus, and harmonies that seem to be near-exact female replicas of SGT PEPPER. Otherwise it manifests itself quietly, in an attentiveness to detail, a quest for slightly new ways of making old instruments sound. "This Town..." brings in chiming organ and some interesting drum textures. "Maybe It's Love" uses strings and protracted timing in a way that can recall "Fool On The Hill" if you really want it to. "...Cafe", alternative rock, brings in a joyous trumpet hook, although the weirdly twisting rock guitar occasionally edges closer to Sunny Day Real Estate. "Mr. Right Now" plays around with Leslie speaker tricks, quasi-psychedelic harmonies, and organ a la Dylan's The Band. "Jack..." plays with thick, hazy textures, though mostly it's choppy rock. "Keys...", I suspect, could replace "She'll Be Comin' Round The Mountain" in preschools everywhere without the universe being altered in even butterfly-wings-in-China fashion. "Forever" is a country song, but one that's listened to "Blue Jay Way" and "Strawberry Fields Forever", taking close notes.
And the other songs sound like folk-country-rock again. They remain, after all, the Nields. They sing, they dance, they grab whatever accompaniment works because they know perfectly well they don't _need_ accompaniment. They observe the world around them with intelligence, and they still love the world around them. Even if somehow I failed to love the songs, I still think I'd find that very heartening.
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