Ween

In the beginning there were farce and sonic terrorism. Not exactly blunt weapons, either — enough, in fact, to earn cult band status at the dawn of a decade in which that label would be handed out to just about everyone in the joyful American alternative circus. But on Zappa-esque philosophy alone, Aaron Freeman and Mickey Melchiondo — Gene and Dean Ween to their friends — could not have survived for long. Good intentions aside — that urge to mock the shiny but phony orthodoxy of pop — sheer goofiness or aggressive posturing alone couldn't carry them all the way.

With the desecration of "God Ween Satan: The Oneness", everything could be forgiven: the excessive fragmentation, the genuine weirdness, the unconditional nonsense, the deliberately shoddy and flickering production. After all, there was the element of surprise and the cocky, reckless attitude of kids just messing around. With "The Pod", systematic chaos and amateurism, pushed well past any reasonable limit, shaped a murky, acid-drenched sound that gave rise to ragged, elusive songs, remarkably successful in sounding both dim-witted and visionary at once. The start of their major-label era then had to smooth over some of those excesses ("Pure Guava") and loosen the reins on a chameleon-like quality that would prove proverbial ("Chocolate And Cheese"), without betraying the ironic brown aesthetic of their most ramshackle productions, while at the same time revealing the unmatched power of the recording studio.

In this particular phase in the mid-Nineties, with drummer Claude Coleman Jr, bassist Dave Dreiwitz and keyboardist Glenn McClelland joining as permanent members, Ween stopped being a sublime but self-indulgent duo act and were reborn as a fully-fledged band, devoted less to raw provocation than to superb genre counterfeits — increasingly redundant and hyperrealist explorations that were nonetheless absolutely masterful: as guilelessly funny as They Might Be Giants, as sensual as Prince, as filthy and abrasive as the most wrecked of punk bands — the fake brothers from New Hope, Pennsylvania established themselves as true masters of eclecticism, insanely skilled and exceptionally precise shapeshifters. Good ideas piled up, but for once discipline won out. The album for which they'd be remembered was shelved for over a year, making way for the expressive direction that, in the studio, seemed to elbow its way forward like the most demanding of whims (never mind that it turned out to be a lovingly reactionary concept album like "12 Golden Country Greats").

Introduced by the burlesque intoxication of the lopsided "I'm Dancing In The Show Tonight", but also by the caressing warmth of an eponymous ballad specifically designed to mimic the hazy luminescence of the underwater world, "The Mollusk" is a kaleidoscopic anthology of psychedelic vignettes handed over, under exclusive license, to the power of imagination. The result — a work that, metaphors aside, can genuinely be called submerged, brimming with pop flourishes and oblique melodies worthy of a Stephin Merritt (just listen to the melancholy carousel of "Polka Dot Tail") — comes across as lush and thriving. Without hesitation, the band claims this bizarre musical territory as its own ideal comfort zone, wallowing in the vivid, multicolored abyss with a remarkably fitting aquatic sound, made of pearly reverbs, spongy rhythms and vocals filtered as if through masks and snorkels.

The grotesque, visionary incarnation thus tends to win out. If the boogie of the electric eel is exactly what it promises — a grim animation drawn from oceanic darkness, the trap of a predatory monster owing everything to its deceptive glimmers — "The Blarney Stone" is a filthy sea shanty delivered with a fittingly deep Tom Waits-style baritone, reviving the wonders of a seafaring imagery that is clearly among the duo's favorite sources of inspiration in their mad saga, while "I'll Be Your Jonny On The Spot" is alien punk that sounds as if played with claws, stirring up the murky depths of the old "The Pod", churning the seabed almost as if to disavow the implicit repression that later albums had imposed on those paradoxical, hypnagogic anticipations.

The more purely playful streak is preserved by a colorful, innocent instrumental that looks like a child's stylized themed drawing, "Pink Eye On My Leg", just one step away from the Primus-style tomfoolery of "Waving My Dick In The Wind", in keeping with the record's placidly light-hearted mood and carrying the lightness of a truly unspoiled gaze, no longer sterile provocation as it once was: even minor episodes like this one contribute to the greatness of the overall picture.

When they play the delicacy card ("Its Gonna Be Alright," the fatalistic elegy "Cold Blows The Wind," which carries the charm of Nick Cave's "Murder Ballads"), Ween hit the mark just as effectively. Like book illustrators from a century ago, Gene and Dean watercolor reality with the grace of a clear, gentle storytelling, exalting a fine-grained decorativeness capable of sidestepping the pitfalls of that very sonic chaos critics have always been inclined to associate them with.

"Buckingham Green," by contrast, presents the treacherous roughness of a cliff face, softened by seaweed and anemones yet still sharp-edged, while "Ocean Man" reveals instead the candor of a playful, childlike easy-listening tune, the wonder of a childhood that's no longer a stoner's daydream but a full-on nostalgic swan dive.

"The Mollusk" is a small alt-rock triumph, the album most cherished by its own creators as well as by other admirers: the creator of the animated series "Spongebob Squarepants," Steven Hillenburg, would call it a huge source of inspiration and insist on including "Ocean Man" in the show's 2004 film spin-off, along with other tracks used across various episodes of the cartoon.

Among its great merits is having inaugurated a formula of unbridled parody stripped of any satirical ulterior motives or the swaggering attitude of the past, a precious recipe for the other great albums to come - from "White Pepper" to "La Cucaracha," via the magical emotional depths of "Quebec" - works polished and flawless in their execution, balancing triumphant jam band energy, progressive gambles and lavish soft-rock speculation. Music written from the heart (the bleeding heart of maturity) by Ween, one of those overflowing, unmistakable bands you either love or hate without reservation.

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29/07/2018