Dean Wareham's disembodied, echoing voice drifts tantalizingly among the music's yawning spaces; it's quite a trick to bury vocals in such minimal bass-drums-guitar arrangements. The music is often morosely psychedelic à la Joy Division, though the occasional rippling folkie chord momentarily dispels the gloom. On Fire fairly bristles with familiar musical touchstones, like the tunelessly Dylan-esque harmonica of "Leave the Planet" or the majestic
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falsetto chorus of "Blue Thunder" that evokes shades of none other than Frankie Valli. But the references aren't thrust in your face – they melt into the background, and you don't need to play spot-the-influence to enjoy the music.
The lyrics are full of frank admissions like "Jesus, can't you see I'm going 'round the bend?" in "Tell Me," and Wareham's high, plaintive voice and his guitar's splintered dissonances drip anguish and resignation. There's no escaping the crippling pathos and droll realism in songs like "Plastic Bird," where, in a fit of rage, a man smashes the nose off a toy bird his lover once gave him, or "Strange," where Wareham asks, "Why does everybody look so strange?" as he stands in a drugstore munching a Twinkie.
With its rudimentary drum-and-guitar riffing, "When Will You Come Home" has a crude but ethereal sound reminiscent of late-period Velvet Underground. A world-weary cover of George Harrison's "Isn't It a Pity," transformed into a song about the singer's vulnerability, closes the record. Galaxie 500 assimilates sounds from a rich and varied past, adding a quavering voice. (RS 574)
MICHAEL AZERRAD
Next to the Pixies'
Surfer Rosa and My Bloody Valentine's
Isn't Anything,
On Fire ensured that the 1980s would end in a flurry of incredible music. Galaxie's sophomore album was shambling psychedelia at its finest: the Byrds filtered through the Velvets, with crawling tempos that verged on spiritual.
