Some happiness with Eels
Mr E plays his beautiful blues, with the 'Queen' in attendance.
Also In The News
|
An obnoxious, overweight fat man in a pair of red pants: the latest answer to tackling climate change?
Together - the organisation behind Energy Wasting Day on April 1st - certainly hopes so. |  |
Sunday, 03, Feb 2008 11:43
E cuts a lonely figure on the barren stage of the Royal Festival Hall. The boiler-suit clad Eels frontman says he doesn't get out much, and we believe him. It's a motherf***er, he insists.
This year has seen a flurry of action emanating from the Eels camp. After two world tours on the back of 2005's Blinking Lights and Other Revelations, E maintained he was taking a sorely-needed rest. In reality, however, he was writing an autobiography - Things the Grandchildren Should Know - which was duly backed up by a best-of Essential Eels album and rarities collection, Useless Trinkets . And now there's another world tour to boot.
To the uninitiated, it's fair to say that E - full name Mark Oliver Everett - often seems a less-than-enticing prospect. The dishevelled, Dog Faced Boy is best known for writing soul-jarring, embarrassingly-honest songs about his departed family members. His mother died of cancer just before the release of debut album Beautiful Freak - and his sister committed suicide just after. He found the cadaver of his emotionally-incapacitated, genius father when he was 19. His cousin was a flight attendant on the plane that hit the Pentagon on 9/11. Oh, and he doesn't so much sing as talk in a drab, monotonous voice. And mostly about not getting out much; or feeling mentally unhinged; or wanting "one single page" dedicated to him in the diary of some girl called Jeannie. He's a little sensitive, I guess you could say.
Any wary sentiments are entirely understandable, then - to the uninitiated - and yet they do scant justice to the emotional and empathetic maturity of Mr E. So let's focus on some home truths instead.
First off, E is a rawk star, not a "rock" star. In E's world - and his mind, which largely seem one and the same - being unhappy and having issues is apparently A-OK, just as long you can tap into those melancholic vibes with some sublime, spine-tinglingly affective lyrics - backed up of course with the occasional salvo of thrashing guitar riffs. To this end, the Eels' art is healing - its mournful elegies are entirely life-affirming, while its brutish romps into heavy distortion and unashamedly-bombastic drum hooks serve as ideal grounds for escapism.
A constant source of frustration for many E devotees, in fact, is that among his periodic commercial hits (usually one obtrusive, deceptively-upbeat offering per album), the most popular always seem to be those which - apparently unbeknownst to their admirers - evoke the dourest and most unapologetically gut-wrenching of images. Oh you didn't much like Electro-Shock Blues, you say, but you thought Hey Man (Now You're Really Living) was a great song? Uh-huh. You found it uplifting. Right.
"Do you know what it's like to care too much/'bout someone that you're never gonna get to touch/Hey man, now you're really living/Have you ever sat down in the fresh cut grass (Hey!)/And thought about the moment and when it will pass (Hey!)/Hey man, now you're really living/"
Staging an even more perverse assault on logic, E's morose air betrays an altogether more playful, child-like levity. Having formally requested the company of the Queen at his Royal Festival Hall gig, the frontman revealed his dismay at learning that his gracious invitation had been declined. Cue the services of an unnamed wardrobe department and one remarkably credible stand-in. Feigning reverence, a droll E duly peered up to the Royal Box mid-concert and asked his esteemed guest whether she liked the heavy stuff or the soft stuff. "Thy rawk!" Her Fake Majesty yelped back.
And what about the simple fact (and it is a fact, if you look at the size of his discography and tour itineraries) that E is an exceptionally hard-working artist who steadfastly refuses to allow his songs to gather dust. In January, an audience at London's intimate St James' Church was treated to a Mussorgsky-esque, heart-attack-inducing piano rendition of Flyswatter - yet one short month later the same song had evolved into a theatrical drum-heavy duet with part-time sidekick The Chet. Three years ago, Flyswatter had the backing of a string quartet, no less. God knows the fans wouldn't complain if E hammered out his studio releases verbatim at each show, but it's a remarkable testament to the dexterity and versatility of this strange little man that he always chooses to go that extra mile.
So he's got depth, the sceptics must surely concede. Perhaps the bitterness and the ragtag appearance and the mordancy of it all are disguising something more worthy. Maybe he isn't just a whiney little git crying out for a Lucky Day in Hell, appealing to lots of other whiney little gits who want their Lucky Day in Hell too. Fair enough - but an autobiography?
Here I must debase. Despite being a longstanding Eels fan and a now fully-reformed one-time literature student, I would be the first to contend that Things the Grandchildren Should Know will probably not be inscribed in the annals of greatest-ever autobiographies. Up there with the works of Benjamin Franklin, it is not (and why should it be?). It is, however, a fascinating insight into the lesser known quirks of E's long and hard-travelled road, right from his troubled childhood through his fateful journey to California and his first stumbling steps towards becoming one of the world's most prolific and critically-acclaimed contemporary musicians. Peppered as the book is with E's trademark neurosis-tainted brand of narcissism, it marks a welcome addition to the Eels catalogue.
At the end of the day, though, E will always shine brightest as the misunderstood, misanthropic musician that he so obviously is.
"So if I leave my room/Don't you tell me to lighten up/Maybe sometime sooner or later/But I don't think I'm ready yet/I'm not feeling up to it now/Just not that steady yet/And I don't need you telling me how
Ready for the rat race? Ready to cast aside the cape of hermitdom? Ready for relishing press interviews and revelling in "rock" stardom?
With the kindest of intentions, E, I hope you never are.
Martin Leo Rivers