All high school sit-coms include an obligatory episode in which the Dumb Ass Jock takes a liking to a Studious Suzy and sets out to impress her by showing his “sensitive side.” What follows typically entails said jock making poor attempts at poetry, playing guitar or joining a debate team. In the case of Watch Me Fall, The Jock is a Reatard and his Studious Suzy is New Zealand. The plea for attention is not a poem, it’s Jay Lindsey’s (aka Jay Reatard) latest Matador release.
This effort charts an appreciably different course for Reatard. The staccato phrasing of his hooks are accounted for, but now layered over kitschy acoustic guitars and keys. This is a soft album. One that is difficult to take seriously. The shrewd will not miss Reatard’s well-documented infatuation with Flying Nun Records and, especially, the good man Chris Knox, for whom Reatard had planned a collaboration. And Watch Me Fall is as close to such a collaboration as we are likely to see. This album is more than simply inspired by The Clean, Tall Dwarfs, and friends; it is Jay Reatard’s attempt at a New Zealand power-pop record. A problematic endeavor, to speak of it kindly.
Jay Reatard’s idol is one of the most talented songwriters yet living. Since the mid-80′s, Chris Knox has been ahead of every curve, going unnoticed while you listened to Pavement. His catalogue is filled with the dark wit, deprication, and autobiographical zeal of an intelligent and merry outcast, content to write songs about his wife and children. In contrast, Jay Reatard is a violent jock with apocalypse hair.
Make no mistakes– I think the Reatards were a good band. I thought that the Lost Sounds and Blood Visions were fine, as well. But introspective they were not. And herein lies the problem with Watch Me Fall.
Reproducing the soul of NZ rock, as is clearly the ambition here, requires having more banging around in your skull than drugs and ambitions of nerd-assault. That is, writing a “soft” album is not so simple as strapping on an acoustic and singing in falsetto. No, making sentimental music involves more than tonal properties: it has to be expressed with sentiment. This isn’t exactly expected of a guy primarily known for taking lots of drugs and beating his fans up. All of those things might make a fine profile for a semi-talented cock who makes good and scuzzy garage, but who needs – or wants – Jay Reatard to get deep?
It is not my intent to lose sight of Jay’s work in his person. I don’t know Jay Reatard, nor do I believe everything the internet reports. He might have good reason to beat up kids at his shows. I wouldn’t want anyone screwing with my equipment, either. And even if his assaults occur more often than is the case with, well, any other musician, it doesn’t happen every show. But whether or not this notoriety is justified or hype, he certainly markets it.
Ordinarily, personality tics and tough-boy marketing gimmicks should have little bearing on an evaluation of an artist’s work. In this case, it doesn’t seem possible to avoid. Watch Me Fall feels a forced attempt at sincerity by a cocky jerk who isn’t sincere. And I’m not talking rad “Dazed And Confused” jerk. I’m talking about the mouth-breathing, animal-mutilator with the trailer trash hair-job and dead eyes. Yes, this is Jay Reatard in “serious artist” mode. A gimmick which suggests that those stupid, neon high-tops have gone to his head.
Any disingenuous songwriting granted, the music isn’t terrible. Not always. Watch Me Fall features several accomplished tracks, “Can’t Do It Anymore” among them. These tracks have a less abrasive tone than Jay Reatard’s past output, but by being painlessly catchy and bereft of depth, maintain congruity with his overall body of work. Knox coppers like “I’m Watching You,” on the other hand, are the musical analog to a sociopath’s learned skill for faking emotion. This track, and others like it, are unequivocally awful. And unfortunately these are not the exception. In Watch Me Fall, Jay Reatard attempts to join The Clean, but can’t quite make it off of the short bus.
I wouldn’t expect Jay to stay maintain this new direction. Because like in “Saved By The Bell,” The Jock, not fooling anyone, always relapses into nerd-hurting. And Jay Lindsey should have a surplus of bedwetters lining up and paying to be punched after Matador is done with him.
Don’t deck me, dude.
