It’s been a little while, but finally Dan Mangan’s back with a new record. The catch: Club Meds is credited to Dan Mangan + Blacksmith. But wary listeners can relax, it’s not a shocking departure from records like Oh Fortune. But it’s not quite more of the same, either.
If the other name on the bill isn’t familiar, their contributions are. Blacksmith’s comprised of John Walsh, Kenton Loewen, and Gordon Grdina, although Jesse Zubot, JP Carter, and Tyson Naylor are sometimes in it too. All, one assumes, have beards, as suits the gravelly voiced singer/songwriter camp. And all have worked with Mangan on his previous albums and logged time with him on the road.
“Offred,” kicks off Club Meds and generally sets the mood. It builds up from a moody intro into a poppy climax, with plucked guitars, droning electric bass, and splashes of keyboards – it even reminds me a bit of Bombay Bicycle Club, a band I’ve never thought to compare his music to before. While Mangan seems like his usual moody, dark self, repeating lines like “I give in / I do not have the fight / to change my purpose,” the more I listen, the more it seems like self-awareness than an admission of defeat.
The feeling continues throughout the album: bright keyboards, straight-ahead rock rhythms, splashes of noise for colour and Mangan’s personal lyrics. For example: on “Vessel,” a voice repeatedly reminds us “it takes a village to raise a fool,” as Mangan sings and shouts. On “XVI,” he gets political: “If we just buy in / we can thrive / in the gutter…” And on Mouthpiece, Mangan sings “We talk about the past like it’s the strangest dream,” shouting loud enough his voice distorts.
Indeed, Mangan’s voice shifts and changes throughout Club Meds. On “A Doll’s House/Pavlova,” it takes on a spooky, hazy quality. On “Kitsch” it has a weird reverb effect, like those old Magic Microphone toys I used to have as a kid. There are odd effects all over the album and sometimes the band drops out, leaving Mangan’s voice against a spacey and drugged out background of static, keyboards and echoes.
In the promotional copy for the record, it’s noted that producer Colin Stewart and Mangan worked extensively on this after recording the basic tracks. It shows, which isn’t always a good thing. The songs with the most gloss are the weakest ones here and give Club Meds an impression of being over-produced.
Which is too bad, since when things are stripped down – or at least kept to a minimum – things are generally pretty good. Take the title track, for example. The effects slowly build up and build an overall atmosphere, but Blacksmith’s playing carries the song: touches like a restrained lead guitar and muted cymbals work with the effects.
On the other hand, when everything drops out but the effects, it doesn’t work as well. All the layered reverb and bits of noise push the vibe on the listener, like a writer who only tells, not shows or a director incapable of subtlety.
But maybe that’s because they are. In the liner notes, Mangan writes how the title refers to being sedated, being numb and how “unity in numbness is a façade, and not nearly as magical as a unity born of awakeness.” Well, Dan, if you say so. Frankly, I’m not quite sure what he means or even if “awakeness” is actually a word. But it’s certainly not something happening here.
See, the whole thing kind of reeks of self-indulgence at times. Mangan’s message about being awake to world is the kind of message that seems like there’s a point until you parse it: what exactly are we numb to? “Actuality?” But what does he mean by that? We live in time where people are more aware of the world around them than ever, from Ferguson to Eric Garner to Charlie Hebdo. Meanwhile, Mangan’s the guy spending months labouring over his album, trying to give it exactly the right kind of haze and giving it a on-the-nose name like Club Meds (get it? Meds, like as in drugs?). He’s awful willing to point out problems but loathes to provide specifics. And I feel like I’ve heard this sermon before, like in David Foster Wallace’s turgid doorstopper Infinite Jest. That came out nearly 20 years ago, too, so it’s not like Mangan’s on to something new here.
Still, if his insights don’t really pass the smell test and the post-production threatens to overwhelm the listener, the music on Club Meds is still a fun listen, as good as either as of his previous album. And I think “Mouthpiece” and “Offred” are as good as anything that he’s recorded, no mean feat for the guy who wrote “Post-War Blues” and “Robots”. It’s not as accessible as Oh Fortune, but if you liked Mangan’s other records, you’ll enjoy this.
Rating: 3/5