Published on Feb 18, 2003
I love New York.
Really, I do, even if I have lived my entire life on the left
coast and am a notorious homebody. Thing is, I’ve been to New York
a couple of times and gotten a tremendous buzz off just being
there… the energy, the diversity, the badass big-city
attitude… the whole place just feels like possibility made
real. You can do whatever the hell you want in New York and no
one’s going to say “that’s weird,” ’cause it’s just about
guaranteed there’s something weirder down the block or around the
corner.
That makes it the perfect habitat for a singer-songwriter like
David Clement. This is a fellow who’s clearly not interested in
settling on a homogenized sound and making a record that sticks to
it. He’s also not interested in mainstreaming his lyrics; this is
sharp-witted art-rock all the way, with an avant-garde vibe that
owes a huge debt to David Bowie.
Nowhere is this more evident than on the opener “noid noid,”
with its slightly off-kilter melody, lyric full of existential
self-loathing and background vocals right out of Ziggy Stardust.
Clement covers plenty of other musical territory before the album’s
over, though, showing flashes of Elvis Costello/Ramones angry-pop
(“ahh,” “delusion at last call”); somewhat spaced-out hard rock
(“da boy,” “the accoutrement”); and a surprising flair for
R.E.M.-esque ballads with gently chiming guitars (“Sheba’s death
rattle,” “the yard”).
Clement’s focus on these songs is very much on relationships,
but in most cases the outlines are drawn with a kind of
impressionistic obscurity, judiciously doling out situational
details while remaining sufficiently enigmatic to make you listen
carefully. When he does get specific, the results can be oddly
touching, as in “geriatriphilia,” with its sweetly sarcastic lyric
and an organ tone that’s lost in the no-man’s-land between Hammond
and Methodist.
Most of the time, though, his pen is tough on both himself and
the lovers who float in and out of his narratives, such as the poor
fellow in the stuttering, polyrhythmic “smells like a metaphor,”
who goes from being celebrated to eviscerated in just 2:09. (And
yes, Clement is a gay songwriter who doesn’t bother playing games
with his pronouns.)
The guitar work, arrangements and production are tight
throughout this album, both because Clement is supported by veteran
players hailing from the likes of The Attractions, They Might Be
Giants, and Alex Chilton, and because he’s had so long to consider
what these songs should sound like. They were originally recorded
for release in 1998 as Clement’s sophomore album on Mercury
Records, but fell victim to the corporate takeover/music-business
politics meat-grinder that chewed up so many intriguing acts at the
end of the century.
On
Your Free Gift Clement reclaims his songs and remakes them
for a new century. And while the end result is far enough outside
the mainstream that it’s unlikely to find a home on modern rock
radio, that’s Middle America’s loss. Quirky, adventurous and
stubbornly intelligent, this album isn’t for everyone… but
neither is New York.