New Times
July 22, 1999
The Cheese Stands Alone
Robyn Hitchcock
Jewels for Sophia
Warner Bros.
by Sara Scribner
One of Folk Rock's most beloved eccentrics, Robyn Hitchcock combines whip-smart ideas with a psychedelic, Dali-on-Yellow Submarine view of the world. In The Soft Boys, the group he formed in the late-'70s, Hitchcock was an upper-crust, British Frank Zappa with a Byrdsian Pop sense. He offered real relief from what was sonically going on at that time -- in England, mostly puffed-up, tear-down Punk Rock; in mainstream America, crappy, self-inflated desert wandering. He was wicked, sharp-witted, and yet also soft-hearted. These days, he's still music's smartest innocent. "My songs have always been about the shock of existence -- 'Oh my God. I'm really here!' -- whether that shock is benign or terrible," he writes in his self-penned press release. You can hear it in each of his songs, and on Jewels For Sophia, he still sounds surprised.
With this latest release, Hitchcock has taken an approach he hasn't tried since his 1981 solo debut, Black Snake Diamond Role (which was only a slight departure from the just-disbanded Soft Boys). Like that album, this one combines different sessions with different producers and musicians in different locales (Seattle, L.A., and London). In Seattle, he worked with the Young Fresh Fellows' Scott McCaughey, Kurt Bloch, and Tad Hutchison, in addition to R.E.M.'s Peter Buck. In L.A., he worked with the ubiquitous Jon Brion, who brought his great percussive sense and moody instrumental bent to the recordings. And in England, he paired up with former Soft Boy Kimberley Rew.
The result is far less schizophrenic than it deserves to be: Hitchcock jumps from Brion's ultralush moonscapes (the surreal "Antwoman", with Grant-Lee Phillips howling a tiny ant voice in the background; and the addicted-to-Gouda cry for help of "The Cheese Alarm") to the mostly straight-ahead Seattle rave-ups. Though this is one of the most Rock-like records he has recorded in years, Hitchcock -- as familiar as his weird take on things may be -- actually manages to surprise us on Sophia's quieter songs. "Mexican God" -- with its lilting acoustic guitar and Hitchcock's "Ooooh, wap she waddadadop" -- is great, although no big departure. However "The Cheese Alarm" -- a strange combination of Latin guitars, tablas, and shout-outs to Brie, Gruyere, and Roquefort -- puts Hitchcock's superb melodic sense in great relief. And the cello- and harmonica-peppered "No, I Don't Remember Guildford" (originally recorded for Jonathan Demme's still-unreleased concert film, Storefront Hitchcock), sprawls out into moody orchestration in a lazy and terrific way. With these, Hitchcock's oddness seems really strange and not just a well-worn gimmick.
Despite, and because of, his square-peg status, Hitchcock has become a cult hero. He influenced groups like R.E.M. before finally winning minor fame in 1989 with the typically odd Queen Elvis. Since then, Hitchcock has dutifully released good (not great) records to little fanfare. All of them deserved more attention than they've received -- and far less fervent supplication. Jewels For Sophia is further potent evidence that Hitchcock is too worthwhile, and, as Sophia finally proves, too flexible a wordsmith and musician to be relegated to the role of a few fans' fetish.
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