Musician
September, 1991
Robyn Hitchcock's Weird Science
by Richard C. Walls
The first half of Robyn Hitchcock's latest is another fistful of catchy pop/rock songs with enigmatic lyrics, sung in Hitchcock's inimitable if somewhat indescribably vocal style. It's a distinctive non-singer's voice that fits the pinched but provocative emotional range of his songs: untrustworthy, distracted, menacing in an unconventional way, with a barely discernible edge of mockery. The melodies and arrangements may be almost cravenly listener-friendly -- this album has the best collection of basslines I've heard in some time, and "So You Think You're In Love" does its bit in a pleasure-packed 2:33 (New Wave/Power Pop lives!). But that voice, those lyrics, mean to make you uneasy.
Not that one can always pinpoint what Hitchcock's going on about -- he has a politician's mastery of misdirection, making sure he always retains plausible deniability. But there are times -- more than on Globe Of Frogs, at least -- when you think you're getting the drift. The aforementioned "Love", for example, might be about coming out of the closet (could be, maybe). "Ultra Unbelievable Love" is just basically a love song, right? And that part about The Bible...well, I'll have to get back to you on that.
On the set's second half, however, Hitch's compositional proclivities expand for a string of authentically spacious neo-hippyisms -- longish tunes with plump, druggy textures that plop and spread in the properly receptive mind. Here you get something more resembling a philosophy or worldview. Hitchcock's lyrics have always had intimations of phenomenology, biology (especially evolution), solipsism and -- this is a Brit thing -- secret sinister longings, usually peeking out of a surrealistic stew of quotable phrases and jerry-built imagery. On "Ride", his message beams through a little clearer: "You don't have to go anywhere/You don't have to see anyone/All you've gotta do is ride..." and, as the acoustic guitar-driven song tumbles along inexorably: "You don't have to sharpen yourself/You're embedded deep as it is". Ah, conciousness, it does have a mind of its own.
Is-ness is further, uh, celebrated on the patchouli-drenched "If You Go Away": "I don't believe in anything but you/I don't believe in anything at all..." At the same time, Hitchcock's apparent chilliness is becoming tempered by (possible) love songs like "Ultra" or the fresh view of loneliness he gives "Birds In Perspex": "I take off my clothes with you/I'm not naked underneath/I was born with trousers on/Just about like everyone". You get the impression that beneath the facade of the modern singer/songwriter, behind the word games and intuitive existentialism, is someone who's trying like hell to care. Just like everyone.
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