Paul Duncan is a pop songwriter. Paul Duncan is an electronic
experimenter. Paul Duncan sees no contradiction in these two roles, and
the beauty of his second album, Be Careful What You Call Home, comes
in how well they fit together, the hiss of distortion, the familiar
landscapes of found sounds, the abstraction of pure instrumentals,
seamlessly supporting his fragile pop songs.
Duncan has training in film and sound design, and his work reflects that
background with its subtle evocation of mood and atmosphere. The cuts
range from nearly naked ("In a Way," "Oil in the Fields") to fairly densely
instrumented ("You Look Like an Animal"), though even the most orchestrated
retain enough space for silence to show through. There are overtly pop
songs alongside more free-handed instrumental interludes. There are
lighthearted tracks near close-to-tragic ones. Yet overall, Be Careful
What You Call Home feels beautifully and remarkably all of a piece,
like a single track, with pop motifs moving in and out of focus. Listening
to it is like being on a train, with the scenery slipping by, periods of
serene countryside punctuated by manmade structures and cities.
You could easily extract free-standing pop songs from this brief, allusive
album, slipping "You Look Like an Animal," for instance, or "Tired &
Beholden" into a Sunday-morning mix tape, alongside similarly low-key cuts
by Iron & Wine or the Sea & Cake. Still, this is an album you really should
listen to straight through, front to back, once or twice (or even more)
before passing judgment. It has an atmosphere to it that spans multiple
tracks and ties disparate themes together, a mood that is alternately
mournful, sardonic, wistful and even childlike, yet always tied to breezily
lovely melodies. For instance, the song "Tired & Beholden" elliptically
tracks a couple's argument in lyrics like "We are parodies of ourselves" or
"Busy with friends... that don't look at your face" against a
gossamer-light, ultra-melodic musical background. The lyrics are the
needle-sharp remarks that couples make in times of stress, the music is as
gentle as a sigh. The contradiction gives the piece depth, interest and a
certain distance, as if these were things that mattered once, months ago,
and now are only memories.
The continuity of the album comes from its combination of structured songs
and more free-form instrumental pieces. For example, "Toy Bell," with its
field-recorded sirens, hammering, thunder, crickets, and gently distorted
keyboard sounds, serves as a bridge between the strummed-out wistfulness of
"The Night Gives No Applause" and the sensual, electro-beated sway of "You
Look Like an Animal." "Toy Piano" with its hazy, faraway chords and
keyboard figures and sweeping string arrangements, links this latter song
to the crackle-laced jangle of "Manhattan Shuffle," which leads to the
joyful "Toy Bass." Then it's on to the album's saddest track, "Oil in the
Fields," sparse with muted keyboard chords and Duncan's whispery
vocals. The song describe the trip home for a funeral in sparse couplets
("I remember father's ring/ Remember mother's hair/ Don't recall the color of
her eyes/ Until I look at mine") and mysterious enumerations ("Four-hour
plane ride/ 47 suits and ties/ 23 women that I don't know." ) The song could
easily go over the edge into sentimentality, but never does, anchored as it
is in minimal words and sparsely shimmering sounds. When the kick of the
drum and the clash of cymbals comes after the verse, it is almost like
letting out a breath, the tension in the song suddenly finding a way out.
This is wonderful, carefully crafted pop experimentalism in the same vein
as Akron/Family or Grizzly Bear. Allusive, glancing, dreamlike, yet, over
repeat listens, deeply moving, Be Careful What You Call Home
establishes Paul Duncan as a quiet talent that bears watching.
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