John Hult
Aspiring entertainment journalists take note. Genius follows a pattern.
Child psychologists have known this for years. Most parents know by now that babies respond to classical music while in the womb or that newborns who are read to in the first six months are more likely to be well-spoken and score higher on intelligence tests.
But it appears that the onset of creative genius is closely linked to gooney parents.
The creative muscle flexed by “Erin Brokovich” and “Traffic” director Steven Soderbergh was built with gooney-gene Creatine. His dad was Dean of Education at Louisiana State University, and the director was allowed to take animation classes with the university at age 15.
“Royal Tenenbaums” director Wes Anderson grew up in a household remarkably similar to that of the dysfunctional family portrayed in the movie. His mom was a turbo-eccentric with a doctorate in anthropology, and the future millionaire got a bachelor’s degree in philosophy with her approval. And a BA in philosophy is useless (in terms of future income potential, anyway).
The duties of rearing a young Beck were divided between his Presbyterian minister grandfather and Andy Warhol chum mother.
The fact that the vanguard artist who is responsible for this week’s album rose from a wellspring of familial goofiness, then, should be no surprise. “E,” Mark Oliver Everett the vocalist/guitarist/songwriter for Eels, is the progeny of Dr. Hugh Everett III. The good doctor was apparently a brilliant physicist who wrote the first essay on the concept of a parallel universe and exchanged letters with some other guy what was his name? Oh, Albert Einstein. E’s mom was a tortured poet, as well.
So, as I said at the start, future entertainment journalists of the world take note, if you have not already. Watch out for any budding sensation whose folks are professors, eccentrics, overachievers or libertarians. They just may end up special.
On “Soul Jacker,” the fifth album from Eels, Mr. E proves his worth as a special sir for certain. According to the Eels’ website (www.eelstheband.com), the term “Soul Jacker” was initially applied by the media to a serial killer in the early 1990s. The album, however, trolleys the term down more intriguing path. The song “Soul Jacker pt 1″ is about the horror of life without a full knowledge of one’s soul. Each other track tells the stories of common folks whose soul remains unrecognized.
It sounds deep, I know. But you don’t need an uncommon intellect to discern the meanings, here. “Soul Jacker” doesn’t contain any six-syllable words, and the songs work on a simplistic level first, like “Animal Farm.”
This is the first album I’ve heard this year that truly knocked me on my butt. Of course, it was really only the first two tracks that really knocked me on my butt. The third time I got up I stayed up. But even the tracks following the first two got me after awhile. I love the fact that “Soul Jacker” doesn’t think I’m dumb. Not me, in particular, but anyone who would listen. The stories are simple yet poignant with just enough metaphor to keep them interesting long after they are complete.
Eels have constructed in “Dog-Faced Boy” a dirty, noisy, snotty anthem for unkempt youth comparable to the Black Flag classic “My War.” But “Dog-Faced Boy” says much more and goes far beyond the simple anger on its surface.
The second song is equally booty kickin’. “That’s Not Really Funny” tells a woeful tale of self-doubt with the same volatile mixture of self-hatred and humor as “Dog-Faced Boy” but speaks in a more mature tongue. What’s not really funny? Your girlfriend joking about your size; a problem a dog-faced boy could only wish for.
The whole album could be looked upon as going through this dejected, soulless sort of life cycle. There is the high school phase, the awkward young relationship stage, the older, wiser twenty something stage (“Woman Driving, Man Sleeping”) and a song about a kid who waits for fights (“Bus Stop Boxer”). This is quite ambitious for what sounds initially like simple punk outfit.
Of course, each song is a complete work. In fact, some songs make sense only when looked at individually, like the stellar tale of a male prostitute who kills a man then flees into the jungle, “Jungle Telegraph.”
It is difficult to pin down the sound of Eels, which is also a nice feature of “Soul Jacker.” Some songs have a decidedly hip-hop groove; others are just greasy garage punk. But it all fits, somehow, and it never gets boring.
Like any album reviewed in the Collegian, you can hear samples by request at 688-KSDJ. The 90.7 DJs ought to be more than happy to serve your new tune needs.
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