Track Review ⊙ Daily Ops Home
The Rosewood Thieves :: "Los Angeles"From From The Decker House (V2; 2006)
The Rosewood Thieves’ “Los Angeles” kind of sounds like a contemplative Elliott Smith b-side, with a simple melody moving determinedly forward and a piano line just punchy enough to keep the lyrics from descending into a moody slog. Certainly 20 year-old songwriter Erick Jordan could draw worse comparisons his first time out the gate, and, just like a 20 year-old, there’s some swagger in his sorrow. The undercurrent of this song (and I’m not sure if it’s intentional) is the entitled feeling you get the first time that your life catches up to the lyrics of the music you’ve been listening to. Jordan expresses this disorienting confluence of fact and fiction by admitting, “I can’t remember if she’s real.” He’ll spend most of the song struggling with this question before deciding in the affirmative, mulling it over for a second, and then shit-canning the whole debate for a road trip out West. It’s an odd, unpleasant feeling, but one that mitigates the abjection which will be the result of identical experiences in the future; it’s almost like accomplishing something. It also evinces the potential of a young writer providing he doesn’t get too comfortable in this initial period of angsty flux.
“Los Angeles” is ambiguous in this sense. It hints at Smith’s tranquil but tortured dichotomy without delving much deeper than wistful. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing; The Rosewood Thieves are decidedly alive and kicking, tempering wistfulness with youthful optimism and making sure to punctuate their jilted musings with a half-sneer. Jordan sings the final refrain in upswing: “I’ve got some friends in L.A./ Tellin’ me to head out their way/ ‘cause they know I’m in love with the sun.”
This is an admirable stab at honesty without histrionics and subtlety without self-importance, and the end result is more than listenable. It’s a fun little jam. It is, however, the kind of song that raises questions about artistic stagnancy even in early listens; the kind of song that prompts the response, “Alright. Not bad at all. What else ya got?” And the answer, at least in this instance, is not much. As the protagonist of the song resolves his dilemma, reconciles with his disorientation, and unceremoniously moves on, the listener has an impulse to do the same. I guess what I’m saying is that as easily as the progeny of this track could continue to encourage Elliott Smith comparisons (shudder), it could just as easily give birth to the Damiens of mid-album Vines schlock (sh-sh-shudder). And I don’t know about Erick Jordan, but I’d rather be buried next to Elliott Smith than snorting Ritalin next to Craig Nicholls.
Eric Sams :: 22 September 2006 |
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