Christopher Owens, the singer/songwriter/guitarist of San
Francisco’s Girls, has a remarkable backstory—complete with a
cult upbringing, heavy drug use and a millionaire surrogate father
figure. Thankfully, Owens’ biography is absolutely inconsequential to
enjoying his shaggy, masterful debut.
Aided by Chet “JR” White—whose work on the album’s production
gives the lo-fi music uncharacteristic flourishes of depth and
emotional vivacity—Owens seamlessly treks through music history.
Owens and White cherry-pick qualities of the sunnier, more yearning
music of bygone eras (from the Byrds to Black Flag, from Buddy Holly to
My Bloody Valentine).
Owens’ affected vocal shifts, from spiky shrieks to baritone moans,
may lose some otherwise interested parties. Those who remain interested
will relish the fervor and commitment with which Owens and White
execute their hybridized tunes, interspersing jangly guitars with
doo-wop and shoegaze (“Laura”), fuzzy pop with an achingly beautiful
electronic sheen (“Summertime”) and a country-Western ballad with hazy
sonic soundscapes (“Lauren Marie”).
The scariest part of this album may be that, as a debut, its 12
songs show little room for improvement. The album’s sole instrumental,
“Curls,” an organ showcase whose flutier moments evoke the Middle Ages,
is irresistible; even the Western tremolo guitar epic “Hellhole
Ratrace” manages to craft its endlessly repeated chorus (“I don’t want
to cry / My whole life through / Yeah, I wanna do some laughin’ too”)
into an affecting anthem in its own right.
A stunning success of musical pastiche, Album, like Owens,
appeals as equally touching and troubled.
This article appears in Oct 1-7, 2009.