Sparklehorse - It’s a Wonderful Life

Abstract but grounded.

My perception of Sparklehorse’s third album It’s a Wonderful Life has beautifully warped since my first listen some ten years ago. Picture a skinny, floppy-fringed Aker sitting on a school bus through a nondescript post-industrial British city listening to an awkward mix of Mastodon, Elliott Smith, Deftones, The Smashing Pumpkins, Enslaved, Neil Young, Opeth, Funeral for a Friend and Nick Drake. Not a lot has changed, I still pull away in both directions. From the heavy bands to heavier bands. From sad, soft artists to sadder, softer artists. A moodiness connects the metal with the acoustic. The same thing that drew me to metal (often that crushing release of energy and overwhelming sense of pathos from a riff or a scream) drew me to acoustic/singer-songwriter/indie (an incredibly personal release of energy and overwhelming sense of pathos from a solemn key change or vocal inflection). 

When I first heard It’s A Wonderful Life it crushed me in a peculiarly subtle way and my memories of it are wrapped up in a hazy, confused and sunny nostalgia of moving away from home for the first time, wandering a new city alone, pretending not to be majorly homesick, and generally not feeling the best (at a time in a person’s life that’s supposed to be THE BEST). 

Context plays a big part and at the time I was drawn in by the depressing personal tales connected to records and artists. This was the case with my addictions - and they were that for a time - with Elliott Smith, Jeff Buckley, Nick Drake and Sparklehorse. All had died in peculiar circumstances. Mark Linkous - the figure behind Sparklehorse - shot himself in the head and throughout his life dealt with various issues including a famously nasty drug overdose that saw him become paralysed after becoming unconscious with his legs trapped under him. The music media at the time devoured this story, painting Linkous poetically as the forlorn, struggling, depressed musician whose music was a visceral extension of a troubled psyche. 

Drawn in by the mythos, the record blindsided me for its surreal and whimsical combination of folk and retro rock instrumentation and dreamy lyrical animalism. I became addicted to the record, as I do to most things that catch my eye at a certain time, until it dropped away for a few years. A sad record to put on with faux-sadness - a record to listen to with mopey self-indulgence. And then I listened to it again a few years later. And I realised how much I loved it, and how little elements that I once found depressing, or hopeless, or even musically tedious, had changed. As the years have passed I now listen to the record with a more balanced emotional mindset (although you can be the true judge of that) and Linkous’ songcraft and lyrical accompaniments hook me everytime. It’s a Wonderul Life is an emotionally dynamic release that manages to pack a vibrant range of feeling in the smallest of moments. This is what the best music, in my mind, achieves. 

The media created a mythology around Linkous following the events of his second album’s creation (the overdose etc). Against his will his music became a symbol for a drab sadness. His music and his outlook on life were thus done a major disservice. It’s a Wonderful Life - and the opening track especially - is a middle finger to all that. Though at times sombre and forlorn, it possesses a colourfulness and quirky depth that I’ve rarely found in other records. Linkous’ vocals are like a sprite’s husky whispers. They float and probe through a carnival of crackling retro instrumentation, deep strings and whistling flutes. It’s a collage of retro-freshness that is both painful and uplifting for me now. I love Linkous’ vocals, I love the tone of the many instrumental touches that shimmy through the mix, I love the female-male contrasts with PJ Harvey and Nina Persson, I love the jolt of a growling Tom Waits in “Dog Door,” and I love (though I didn’t like it as much back in the olde days) the dreamy, fragmented, lighter back end of the record.

But most of all, beyond everything, I adore Linkous’ lyrics. I often sit reading lyrics when listening to records and I’ve made the mistake in life of trying to read and write for a living which, as you can probably tell, is littered with wonderful obstacles. Linkous’ lyrics are like a child’s topsy-turvy fantasy. Humans have turned to self-aware animals in a kaleidoscopic world of modern myth making, fairytales and nonsense poetry. I think of the nonsensical eccentricity of Edward Lear and Lewis Carroll, but there’s also an honest, plain and emotional tone to the lyrics that manages to hit me at the right spot. Plainly, it’s abstract but grounded by simple emotional fragments. With Linkous’ singing and subtle instrumental playfulness to uphold the lyrics, I rarely tire of the album and the images it creates for me. I implore you, dear Vortexian, to follow along with the lyrics and let the music and wordplay settle in your jaded minds. You might think it shit, but just imagine a little yellow Aker crying on a school bus (he has Bieber hair, his eyes are closed, his sweaty, spotty face rests against the greasy window and and a solitary tear falls) as he pictures randy roosters, hoarse talking horses and fiery pianos washing up on foggy coasts. I realise, now, why I’m the way I am.

Since this Velocitopster event was announced many months ago I knew I wanted to write about this record. I’ve probably listened to it fifteen times since March and I just love it more and more now. It’s nice to feel something again. I’m ready, therefore, to hear the lamentations of the Vortex. I expect comments about how he can’t sing, how it’s lazy, placid, uneventful indie that goes nowhere, how it’s pretentious twaddle that fails to evoke any tangible emotion, and how it’s a record that could only hook a pseudo-intellectual lapsed emo in his mid to late 20s. And you know what, you might be right. But I still love every moment after every listen. Context becomes blinding and the Vortexian quest of self-analysis with regards to favourite albums or musicians is a dive into depersonalisation and distancing. I’ve tried to think of this record beyond the context - my context and the record’s context - and in doing so I have realised that sometimes I don’t give a shit about distancing myself. For this one, let me be irrational and emotional. It’s a wonderful life…until the Vortex gets a’hold of ya!