Wisdom of Solomon

Few recent albums have caused my soul more distress than the Sleepy Jackson‘s Lovers. Not that it’s a bad album — on the contrary, it’s pretty good. Rather, it’s the questions it raises. What sort of band is this, exactly? Is this grab-bag musical approach a good idea? Furthermore, what of the mad genius of rock?

After all, Sleepy Jackson frontman Luke Steele fits the role. He is a fairly incoherent interview whose live shows have been pocked with meltdowns. And nobody can seem to stay in the same band with him for very long.

Must all of our finest singer-songwriters follow the Brian Wilson model? Must they all be certifiable nut jobs, like Prince; tortured souls, like Jeff Buckley; arrogant assholes, like Sting; or all three, like Ryan Adams?

Haven’t we seen all of this before?

These questions burned in my mind as I waited recently for a train that was, of course, late. To kill time, I started whistling the Byrds’ “Turn! Turn! Turn!”

Now there was a neglected band. About twenty years ago — when the jangle rock of bands such as R.E.M. was all the rage, the Byrds were the hippest old band around, save maybe the Velvet Underground. Today, the Byrds are relegated to oldies radio, and the Velvets … well, the Velvets are still the coolest ’60s act around.

“You know, son, I wrote that song,” a voice said, interrupting my reverie. I turned around and saw an olive-skinned man in a blue-and-white jacket. He had shoulder-length white hair tucked beneath a cloth fisherman’s hat, and a long, white beard stained purple framed his mouth. He was old as dirt. Probably a wino. I’d seen him here and there from time to time, feeding pigeons and chatting with people. But he sure as hell didn’t look like Pete Seeger, so I paid his claim little mind.

“You look troubled,” he went on. “Unburden the load that weighs on your soul.”

What the hell, I thought. If this dude has the sense to recognize — still more, to claim authorship of — a great tune, he could probably handle a few of my queries.

“It’s about this band called the Sleepy Jackson,” I began.

“Yes, the Australian fellow — Luke Steele,” the stranger cut in.

“Uh, yes,” I continued. “Look, my name’s John … ”

“I know. My name’s Eccles,” the stranger replied. “Solomon Eccles. Most folks just call me the Preacher.”

Uh-huh. He’s probably an ex-con, I thought. At least now I knew for sure he was lying about “Turn! Turn! Turn!” But I plowed on anyway. After all, there’s a time to speak and a time to shut up.

“This Steele guy’s got me troubled,” I went on. “‘Good Dancers,’ the first song on his new album, is a blatant George Harrison rip-off, and the next one, ‘Vampire Racecourse,’ sounds exactly like the Velvet Underground — ”

“Ho ho, yes it does, doesn’t it?” the Preacher cut in. “One generation passes away, and another generation comes, but the Velvet Underground abides forever.”

“Yeah, I know, but does all new rock have to sound so old? Must we reward those who wear their influences on their sleeves?”

I picked up my bag and pulled out a couple of reviews of Lovers.

“I mean, listen to this stuff. No Ripcord said, ‘A record that is rich, varied and a little crackers as well, Lovers will certainly stand as one of the best debut albums of the year.’ Best debut of the year? Come on. It sounds like a pretty cool mix tape. Then Spin said it juiced ‘fragile melodies with weeping George Harrison guitar’ and that ‘Luke Steele is pretty even-keeled for a spaced-out pop maestro.’

“I’ll just go for ‘spaced-out,'” I went on. “He was by far the most out-of-it interview I’ve ever done. The dude could barely speak. And his lyrics sound like they were written by a total loon. Take ‘Vampire Racecourse’: These roads they sing like bats I know/Their eyes are tightly sewn, like some priests I know. Huh? Plus, I read that he’s gone through about a hundred bandmates. He fired his own brother and his best friend, for chrissakes. How could Spin say he was even-keeled?”

“Well, fools are also full of words,” the Preacher allowed.

“Damn straight, Preacher. But how should I feel about this record?”

Far down the line, I could see the train’s headlight.

“I’ve always hoped I could be on the cutting edge of musical revolution,” I continued. “I want to be able to pontificate on VH1, damn it. But virtually every rock record I’ve heard sounds exactly like something I’ve heard before. Even crunk music just sounds like Cameo on crack and steroids.”

Eccles chuckled. “The thing that has been, it is that which shall be, and that which is done. And there is no new thing under the sun.”

“So my fate is to endlessly point out that the first Strokes album sounded like Television and the Velvets and the second ripped off the Cars?” I asked. “Am I doomed to prattle on about Thin Lizzy affectations and delusions of Joy Division? I despair all the labor I have taken under the sun. Maybe I’ll just run off and join the Polyphonic Spree.”

“Those Dallas fucks,” the Preacher muttered. “Con artists. Don’t believe the hype. We don’t.”

I wondered who “we” might be, but I didn’t have time to ask. The train was getting closer.

“It’s better to go to a funeral than a bar,” the Preacher said. I thought for a few seconds, and his comment started to make some sense. But only a little.

“Sorrow is better than laughter,” the Preacher went on. “By sadness, the heart is made better.”

“So listening to bands like the Sleepy Jackson is good for us,” I postulated. “The sorrow they bring reminds us of the circle of life — the one verifiable scientific answer to all metaphysical questions, the immutable fact that nature abides and man is transient. Music is nature, and if it’s good, it, too, abides.”

“Yes, my son,” the Preacher replied.

Just then, the train arrived, and I got on. The Preacher stayed on the platform. I found my seat. I turned toward the window to wave, but he was nowhere to be seen.