Jackson Scott - Melbourne

What is this shit? Has indie music become so calculated and cerebral it’s disappeared up it’s own ass?

What is this shit? Has indie music become so calculated and cerebral it’s disappeared up it’s own ass? Is indie in 2013 the equivalent of the same pretentious cerebral bullshit that prog was in 1973?

The phrase “there’s nothing original anymore” may be oft overused in today’s modern pop landscape, particularly when used to describe guitar-based rock, but it should not be used as a counterpoint to pass off any old wank in the name of “art”. Hipsters will get behind this album, but believe, me as much as the new Vampire Weekend, you’ll have forgotten about this record by summer, returning to older, richer, more tuneful albums that, even while wallowing in their own self-pity (which Jackson Scott seems to revel in doing), provide you with a deeper emotional sustenance rather than pure annoyance.

I’d comment on the songs if there were any. They’re mere sketches and doodles, reference points to undeveloped ideas, ideas that could have actually given way to potentially good-great songs if Scott actually could focus his attention long enough. His cloying kid-like voice may or may not be hiding behind a various number of treatments, but he sounds like Alvin from the Chipmunks on acid. And while there’s a perverse enjoyment in this initially, it wears quicker than paint thinner. By the time Melbourne gets around to the shoe-gazey snorefest that is “Together Forever”, you’re truly hoping that the song doesn’t prove prophetic.

There’s a great ringing guitar solo that rises above the din of the almost Weezer-esque “That Awful Sound”, but it’s tuneful respite is all too brief. Some of the sunnier acoustic numbers, namely “In The Sun” have a certain narcotic charm that is reminiscent of Kurt Cobain covering Syd Barrett. Yes, on paper, that sounds amazing, but Scott’s inscrutable lyrics and mumbly vocals keep the listener so far at arms length, it’s like he’s defying anyone to even listen to him.

Some people may be down for that, proclaiming it “frightfully modern” and “the point”; I call these people “wankers”. While delivering an album of snippet-demo-like-songs can be done successfully (hell, Guided By Voices made a career out of it), Jackson Scott’s Melbourne does so in attempt to hide its desperately self-conscious grabs at being “arty” and “weird”. It’s antagonism is transparently calculated and entirely boring. Scott may be an interesting artist to watch emerge, but currently his biggest fan could only be himself. 

(Fat Possum Records)