Galaxie 500

The Nineties were constantly shot through with a melancholy, indolent streak, a depressed mood that spawned a whole host of musical movements (from the lo-fi songwriting of Smog to the faint psychedelic pop of Mazzy Star, all the way to the anemic slo-core of Low and Red House Painters). Almost as a reaction to the great binge of the Eighties, to the hedonism that defined them and to the (residual) rage of post-punk, a generation of musicians devoted themselves to rediscovering the twilight textures of songwriters like Leonard Cohen, Tim Buckley and Nick Drake, pairing them with the cerebral scores of the nascent post-rock scene. Yet at the tail end of the previous decade, New York's own Galaxie 500 had already blazed the trail, with a handful of languid, unassuming ballads steeped in nostalgia and desolation.

Formed on the initiative of three Harvard graduates - Naomi Yang (bass), Damon Krukowski (drums) and New Zealand-born Dean Wareham (guitar and vocals) - Galaxie 500 debuted with the vaguely psychedelic single "Tugboat". Their debut album "Today" (1988) refined that style, sharpening its "ecstatic" and transcendent effects ("Oblivious", "Flowers", "It's Getting Late").

"On Fire" (1989), produced by Kramer - a kind of psychedelic guru of the era and, to all intents and purposes, an added member of the band - is the record that sealed their reputation. Here Galaxie 500's tender sonic cartilage truly takes on an almost mystical meaning. The moods, ever more subdued and listless, edge close to trance. Their ballads, so intimate and heart-wrenching, touch the human soul with the grace of a caress and seem almost to purify it of every earthly burden, in a long, draining work of catharsis. The underlying unease of these songs is gradually internalized, taking on increasingly blurred and abstract shades. The arrangements achieve maximum intensity with minimal ornamentation. They're always measured and linear, yet never banal. A minimal layer of guitars, bass and drums generally serves as the backdrop to Wareham's dreamy voice, intent on whispering delicate melodies; disruptive elements are few and far between: solos, overlapping vocals and tempo changes are rare. The opening "Blue Thunder" pairs strummed guitar and a sly bassline with Wareham's falsetto, channeling the soaring flights of Frankie Valli.

"Tell Me" sinks into catalepsy, with an increasingly hypnotic guitar accompanying the singer's frail voice in a gentle melody. The lyrics are nothing less than a heartfelt confession: "Jesus, can't you see I'm going 'round the bend?". "Snowstorm" is another showcase of their enchanting art: Krukowski's barely-there drumming and Wareham's liquid guitar solo lead the way, but never dominate it, while Yang's bass slips in, more narcotic than ever; then Wareham's vocals grow gradually more intense and the drumming picks up pace too, but without ever becoming intrusive. The unquenchable melancholy of "Strange", with a tighter guitar this time, riding a heart-wrenching, dusk-lit Western gallop, manages to evoke even the most lyrical moments of Neil Young; electricity is palpable too in "When Will You Come Home", one of the album's most authentically "rock" moments, with a raw guitar riff reminiscent of late-period Velvet Underground.

But the most bewitching nostalgia claws its way back in on the sprawling acoustic ballad "Decomposing Trees", where a jazz saxophone pushes through, adding an extra touch of "nocturnal" charm. Yang takes lead vocals on "Another Day", backed by sustained guitar and Wareham's supporting vocals in the final chorus. The harmonica that opens "Live The Planet" echoes vintage Dylan, but it's still the guitar that reigns supreme, paired this time with driving drums. Poised between folk and psychedelia, "Plastic Bird" is the desperate confession of a lover who, in a fit of rage, destroys the plastic bird his beloved had given him (!). The album closes with a tribute to George Harrison, a highly distinctive cover of "Isn't It a Pity", turned into a meditation on the singer's vulnerability. Kramer contributes his voice and a "cheap" organ. There's no shortage of other illustrious guests either, such as Ralph Carney, a member of Tom Waits's band, who plays tenor sax on "Decomposing Trees".

The remastered CD edition, released in 1997, includes three bonus tracks from the "Blue Thunder" EP (1990): the atmospheric "Cold Night", plus covers of "Victory Garden" by Red Crayola and "Ceremony" by New Order. But there's almost a risk the listener won't even notice, so thoroughly held captive by then to the endless melancholy of these enchanted, otherworldly atmospheres, capable of lifting the daily whirl of thoughts up towards that "Galaxy 500" that feels so much like infinity.

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29/10/2006