Record Review

Sun Kil Moon

April
(Caldo Verde; 2008)

Rating: 64%
Combined Rating: 65%

Tagged to the sleeve of a month more unpredictable than plain relieving, April is basically another Mark Kozelek record through and through; long, slow, and steeped in a melancholic, amorphous retribution of regret the album seems doe-eyed towards wistful ribbons of hope that flutter just above its tired surface for a moment—an electric, chortling solo or a rising score of strings—and then go away so Kozelek can continue ruminating about bolts of thin fabric that will undoubtedly cling to his lover’s thighs or lumpy mattress. It’s no surprise, because that’s how Koz do; every loss is dire and every arpeggio is deconstructed, reconsidered, or played over and over until all meaning’s been hushed and a swarthy, eternally autumn hue casts itself all over the thing.

So: it’s very pretty—like that part in opening “Lost Verses” where Kozelek expands, at the drop of one brushed snare, the insular arrangement to harmonize vocally, broadly, with a white surf of violins; he shocks his register almost to tears, piling on the seasonal imagery, conflating that with his typical worship of the opposite sex, all “Your radiant August eyes / They are the light that guides” as the song swells for another three minutes, calmly allowing the listener to pick up on the self-referential absence of “lost verses” silent between a “lone mandolin,” perhaps defending the songs Kozelek will never write more than the ones he will, manifesting that acceptance in a grubby pick-up coda—but it’s also not about to draw any new converts into the fold.

In fact, there’s not much to be said about an album that exists exactly as it should, satisfied by its own completion and purpose and really looking to nothing else for motivation or worth or whatever. It fulfills itself and nothing more, not even a spot within Kozelek’s body or work, because its spot has already been filled by the year 2001: Old Ramon‘s winding, spare alt-folk or What’s Next To the Moon‘s winding, spare alt-folk interpretations of AC/DC songs. The wailing, waning psychedelic warbling of “Tonight the Sky” (a solo but…it’s all a solo) holds on for dear life, gripping onto the song’s exhaustive length, just as “Duk Koo Kim” plaited its span with xylophones and a gritty texture to its strings, survival bent on variety vibrant enough (albeit only within what Kozelek had already done) to make fifteen minutes seem more sojourn than struggle; Will Oldham’s gildings (he never commands a presence, gracefully pulling at the ends of each of Kozelek’s phrases) within “Unlit Hallways” and “Like the River” trace around obvious and morose images instead of forcing them into poignancy, just as Kozelek’s take on Modest Mouse songs uncovered spates of heartbreak and tenderness simply by sanding their sharper bits. So, it’s not as good as the last real Sun Kil Moon LP, but there’s no particular reason why, because April does well what other Kozelek records did well before, forever, and so on.

Which leaves us with two hats to hang on the rack that was built for coats but can easily hold up hats: 1) “Blue Orchids,” which, sputtering out on a rabid little part-flamenco, part-baroque acoustic interlude, spills into soppy places Kozelek should maybe never tread, a perfect way to push the album, even as it closes, into something infinitely more alien and interesting; 2) Kozelek is as Kozelek does, and no one else does like he do; given the autobiographical frankness of his lyrics and consistently, intensely careful pace of his guitar, the intently serene legato inherent in each syllable, his focus will not change. Call that a blessing or call that unflaggingly, supremely dull, but goddamn if the guy isn’t resilient. Same could be said about Ben Gibbard (whoa! He’s on here? Buh!) but Kozelek’s at least got a better haircut.

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