It had to happen. On the other hand, the moment always comes for every transformist when it is necessary to put away the costumes and masks and present themselves naked in front of the public, the essence behind the artifice. Not that we get to similar extremes, but after a decade spent elaborating concept increasingly complex, Annie Clark throws away every disguise and returns to being herself. What does this mean? Definitely returning to the creative scream, to the primordial strength of an oblique but irresistible songwriting, the one that in “Marry Me” immediately revealed the full character of one of the main interpreters of the last twenty years of American indie. For the first time in charge of the production of one of her works, with “All Born Screaming” the musician frays the close aesthetic ties of her latest tests and rediscovers the burning power of freedom, leaving it to the emotion, the strength of her experiences , to prevail over every other aspect. It’s a long-awaited breath of fresh air, although breathed in with quite a bit of pain.
In the midst of the deepest black, St. Vincent burns, prey to flames that devour his arms: there could not be a more suitable image, a more iconic representation of an undoubtedly casual work, marked however by a deadly aura, by a sense of looming threat ready to strike every single song. It is therefore no coincidence that “Hell Is Near” is the invitation, the obligatory passage from which to enter the new universe designed by Annie Clark. With a melodic cut that seems to start in the wake of Enya, the musician quickly disperses the seraphic flow in a bath of regret and bitterness, the loss materializing in a vase of marigolds. With a phased structure, dominated first by bass and a Byrdsian twelve string, then by synths and piano, the song forces Clark’s pen towards a direction of desolate abandonment, a tragic sincerity that the subsequent “Reckless” offers in double the dose . Initially conceived as a funeral march, a moving requiem imbued with memories, the song explodes in an angry synthetic coda, fury sludgy which denotes the most total confusion.
A similar dynamism, whether intra- or inter-song, hovers throughout the entire listening experience; in a record that finally exploits Clark’s guitar experience as hasn’t happened since the days of “Strange Mercy”, the effect is that of a roller coaster in the depths of trouble, softened however by a compassion that is heartening. Sensual at the beginning, rebellious in its evolution, “Broken Man” makes use of Dave Grohl’s skill on drums (he also appears in the subsequent “Flea”, love seen as an inevitable infection) and brings out an industrial-tinged adrenaline rush , a personal homage to 90s rock, vulnerable enough to crack the leathery shell of the arrangement. The funky pace of “Big Time Nothing”, developed on a base that closely takes Björk’s “Army Of Me”, blends the experience with David Byrne into a schizoid and engaging prism (did someone say Foetus?), capable of spitting out all the tragic alienation of the contemporary individual. The fact that she is so hypnotic in her recitation of prohibitions as if they were the Ten Commandments only speaks in his favour.
And it certainly doesn’t end here. “Violent Times” exploits the famous motif Bondian of “Goldfinger” by channeling it into a tight mechanical channel; while Clark abounds in vocal mannerisms, he discovers his inner Shirley Bassey by playing on the wave of a drama that seems to mount and mount. It is only the appetizer of a B-side that reflects on real deaths (the unfortunate dedication to SOPHIE in “Sweetest Fruit”, already a source of controversy and accusations from the most avid fans of the producer) and possible apocalypses (the underground terror of “The Power’s Out”) without emotional parsimony, on the edge of an abyss from which it becomes impossible to escape.
Going beyond the inexplicable reggae curtain of “So Many Planets”, the only truly discordant note of the collection, it makes perfect sense that the closing is entrusted to the title track. In the company of Cate Le Bon, who here also acts as bassist, she reiterates the bipartite structure of the introductory inferno and closes the circle with a choral ostinato that abruptly interrupts the initial jovial wave atmosphere. As if the scream were a condemnation and comfort at the same time, St. Vincent seals the last project without real solutions, demonstrating however that beneath his costumes beats a heart that is not afraid to present itself in all its complicated humanity. That may be enough.
05/01/2024
