You got the brains to be the next Norman Mailer
You got the longevity to be the next Elizabeth Taylor
You got the class to be the next James fucking Spader
You got the swagger to be the next Stiv fucking Bator
But are you sitting on the toilet staring at your phone like a perfectly tailored, made-to-order puppet
My intake of Mark Kozelek to this point has been limited—I’d only heard a bit of Red House Painters from a friend. I was surprised to find not only that Sun Kil Moon was Kozelek, but that Common as Light and Love Are Red Valleys of Blood was a two-hour collection of ten-minute monologue songs. And I’m glad I went into it blind, because that sounds dreadful on paper. Apparently this is common to Sun Kil Moon, meaning I will assuredly be checking their other albums out, because this one is incredible. It’s basically Kozelek’s diary sent to music, but the stories are so fascinating that it all works.
I suspect it’ll lose effectiveness over the years, since there are elements to it that are more current and fleeting than others. Donald Trump is mentioned on only one song I think, “Lone Star,” where Kozelek blames Trump’s rise on “Facebook, Yelp and reality TV/And Twitter and Uber and Google and video games and every other thing that has turned this country/Into a bunch of dumbed-down slaves of technology … Make no mistake, Donald Trump is our creation.” And while I’m not entirely in alignment with his bourgeois, antagonistic attitude toward technology-at-your-fingertips, he does present a solid point about social media’s role in electing Trump.
Also on “Lone Star,” Kozelek recounts watching over an unaware woman he suspected of being on the verge of suicide, bemusedly speaks of being banned from a Texas city because a church leader read he was sexist, and castigates North Carolina for its policies about transgenders in bathrooms. Coupled with the topic of the United States’ sexually controversial president, this gives “Lone Star” the overall effect of sympathizing with marginalized groups rather than being just another “Trump song,” although it’s a tad preachy.
Kozelek’s fascination with boxing colors several songs (which I understand is routine). In “Chili Lemon Peanuts,” he predicts Timothy Bradley will defeat Manny Pacquiao in their April 9th, 2016 fight, Pacquaio’s claimed last (which turned out not to be true). He muses about death and entropy, and how his body isn’t what it used to be. This is paralleled with his apparent reasoning for why Pacquaio will lose, but Pacquaio ends up winning the fight—”The fight hadn’t gone as I predicted/And that’s life.” On “Bergen to Trondheim,” Kozelek says that Muhammad Ali “wrote the shortest poem in all the world’s history,” when “a student asked ‘Ali, a poem please?’ and he simply replied ‘Me, we.'” He takes this as offhand wisdom and uses it to counter the senseless killing of past and present, as well as offering the relatable thought, “I can’t say I ever liked Radiohead too much myself/But that doesn’t mean I’d walk into a room with a crowbar and try to beat their fans to death.”
“Philadelphia Cop” is a stream-of-consciousness monologue unified mainly by Kozelek’s love of David Bowie, recounting his and a friend’s memories of Bowie and performing “Win” in tribute when Bowie died. “God Bless Ohio” juxtaposes Kozelek’s upbringing with the realities he must face in his travels. “The Highway Song,” “Window Sash Weights,” and “Stranger than Paradise” are morbid fascinations on small-scale killings, while several others touch on recent massacres and more worldly strife. Others ask, “Who didn’t want to get down with Marsha Brady?” or let you in on dreams of Farrah Fawcett and reeling in boats at the dock, sometimes in the same song (“Seventies TV Show Theme Song”). But possibly the album’s key song, and its most revealing and wise, is “Butch Lullaby,” Kozelek’s memorial his friend and roadie that so perfectly illuminates the character of “Butch,” from his quirks to memories of Thanksgiving dinner to his principles. It climaxes with an unintentional discussion on human nature.
Musically, there isn’t a single surprise in the entire hour-and-a-half, yet the arrangements are still hypnotic because they’re played with a high degree of fidelity, yet are humble enough in their intricacy not to overwhelm. In short, they are perfectly suited for the stories, and just groovy enough to make you think you’re listening to jazz every so often. It’s not, but the spirit of the thing is such that you may be imparted with some soul here and there, no matter how dry it is. As for me, I learned a few things from it, which is exceedingly rare in modern music, and I expect to learn more across my next several listens.
The Old Noise 