Sparks, America’s most renown art rock band consisting of brothers Ron and Russell Mael, have consistently been releasing music since 1971. They have created an impressive catalogue that includes 25 studio albums and multiple compilation records. Regardless of this constant outpouring of musical material, their 2002 record, Lil’ Beethoven was perceived by my parents as the newest release after a long period of absence. This might be related to the fact that they were dealing with bringing up two small children at the time, leaving little time and energy for musical adventures and frequent record shopping. But, as long time Sparks fans, the critical acclaim of this latest album could not be ignored. And so they bought a record that would greatly influence not only my musical taste for the years to come, but more fundamentally, how I listen to music.
The album’s titular reference to the 19th century composer Ludwig van Beethoven is by no means accidental or boisterous. It is fitting. If there is one word to describe the sound on Lil’ Beethoven, it is ‘lush’. Magnus opus is a term often chosen by critics to describe Sparks’ 19th studio record as a genre-defying stroke of genius, a risk-taking, convention-breaking masterpiece. Because it is. Breaking with the duo’s previous focus on electronic music, techno inspired beats and an overall more danceable vibe, Ron and Russell elevated their use of synthesisers to new artistic levels: Instead of sharp beats and laser beam artificiality they recreated lush string sections, booming timpani and concert hall choirs to form the foundation of the record. Lyrical minimalism and structural intricacies make up the record’s body. Absurd and self-critical and sarcastic and musically innovative. A record that is fully aware of its novelty and exploits it to the last ounce in a genius fashion.
I am the rhythm thief / say goodbye to the beat, one of the few lines on the first track The Rhythm Thief, seems innocent enough on its own but basically describes the majority of the record, pointing out a large portion of what makes this album so incredible: The lack of a beat. The lack of a steady indication of rhythm. The lack of a bass drum and a snare. Even of a picked guitar, a slapped bass, a clap track, an artificial finger snapping sample. Apart from the luscious timpani rolls serving drama on a silver plate, the opening track (and many of the following ones) completely lacks a beat. Instead, its magic and drive stem from the pairing and fragmenting of the structural components. Musical sections are explored, mixed, stretched out, cut up and stitched back together. Minimal lyrics but maximum music. Cinematic string sections moulded in the recording studio that swell romantically, intercut with an almost threatening chorus consisting of Russell Mael’s voice multiplied by a hundred. A sudden brass band section, completely altering the eerie vibe into something sarcastically comical. A visual score of colours and shapes blending and moving and constantly rearranging.
When I was younger I would imagine the tracks on this record forming the foundation for a jukebox musical. The closing track, Suburban Homeboy would be the opening number, presenting the protagonist, a suburban homeboy looking to find love and success. What 12 year old me did not realise was the wonderful storytelling element of that track. Taking the concept of the rough American suburbs, drug dealers and pimps paired with an almost insulting preppiness, an upbeat, cheeky music track that completely glances over any lumps and bumps in the social system. Classism is dismissed, replaced with blaring organs and plastic choirs. Coated in pink icing and sugary barbecue sauce. The superficial happiness of the brass band, a rise of noise in the background as Mael sings: I am a suburban homeboy / with my suburban hoe right by my side.
Lil’ Beethoven takes the simple questions and elevates them to an existentialist level. How Do I Get To Carnegie Hall?, a song about the struggles of musical success and the obsession with fame, answers the question of what it takes to reach the top. The sobering realisation that only practice makes perfect. A soliloquy of ambitious delusion. The almost vicious response of the chorus. And a mind boggling piano line. It’s the story of a pianist who asks what it takes to get to Carnegie Hall. A simple set up that evolves into an elaborate epic, energetic, intense, gripping. A story that does not remove the doubt of one’s own talent, rather magnifies it. A desire for recognition and success that chooses the pain of practice to form its centre; amped up by strings and a virtual chorus, a visceral game of call and response.
Dadaist and existentialist lyrics mix with fuge-esque musical structures on both I Married Myself and Your Call’s Very Important To Us Please Hold. Kitsch and orchestral techno, melodies flowing over white sand and callcentre desperation. Equally absurd premises treated with the same level of musical integrity and ingenuity. Two collages, amalgamations of musical bits and pieces, layered and cut up in always new and exciting manners. Always building, always growing more and more intense. When lyrical content refuses to become a source for narration, the musical elements have to take centre stage and create an ebb and flow of intensity and drama. It is Sparks’ dedication to pushing the boundaries of pop music that creates the push and pull on this record.
Therefore, the only thing overshadowing the lushness of this record is its musical sincerity. Although all the songs border on absurdity and sometimes straight up ridiculousness, they never lack in musical charisma. They never lack in sincerity and dedication although that may be hard to believe considering such lyrics as I married myself / I’m very happy together / long long walks / on the beach / lovely times. An obsession with perfection is audible in every composition, the fake-ness of its opulent orchestration mind boggling even after more than a decade of listening to it. Lil’ Beethoven is not only one for the deserted-island-records-category. It’s a life-changing one.
Want something equally lush to listen to? Try Pale Green Ghosts – John Grant
The Dad Anthology 