As the frontman of art punk band Ought, Tim Darcy is no stranger to vulnerability or sensitivity; in fact, his lyrics and the melodies that escape his guitar seem to feed off their presence. Ought, of course, being a band party born out of protest, perfectly rides the line of being intellectual but constantly pissed off, and Darcy’s contribution is similar; the music is anxious and jittery, filled with chunky guitars and meticulous basslines, and Darcy’s lyrics, yelped out with a tone existing somewhere between vitriol and inquisitiveness, touch on existentialism and human nature, as well as the monotony of everyday life. In Saturday Night, Darcy’s experimental debut solo album, he becomes a human conduit for emotion, and, as a result, the vulnerability appears less like divine annoyance and more like a lovesick serenade.
Saturday Night was recorded around the same time as Ought’s sophomore album Sun Coming Down, though some of the songs that appear on the solo album were materializing well before the creation of the group itself. Obviously, the songs are much more introspective, perhaps a result of allowing ideas to flow freely rather than attach them to any specific sentiment, politically charged or not, as was the case in Ought. Of course, there are a few overarching themes in Saturday Night – toxic masculinity, vulnerability, gender dynamics – expressed through half-fluid, half-disjointed instrumentals and more experimental effects. The title track begins with a bow across guitar strings, resulting in a just barely tolerable shriek before the splash of drums and deep, brooding vocals set in. It feels lost in time, as if it is the entirety of a performance art piece, especially when Darcy’s voice shouts into the void in a desperate attempt to make sense of his own existence. As a result, the album can sound self-indulgent at times, but then again, a debut solo album deserves no fault in that regard. “Found My Limit” follows that same hollowed out, eerie tone, its repeated phrase like a mantra learned over years of pain and slow realizations.
Some of the best tracks on the album, however, are the ones steeped in thick, chunky guitar and stark, confident vocals. “You Felt Comfort” is heavy, upbeat garage rock at its finest, while “Saint Germain” reads like an existential poem, and, almost appropriately, seems to unravel and stretch towards the edges of time the more it plays on. Darcy finds ways to explain his artistic process in this track as well, playing the philosopher and explaining that “creation is the loudest screech of escape/ which explains why mine sounds like a scream.” “Tall Glass of Water,” the obvious stunner of the album, has Darcy’s voice so expertly nestled between rampant, electrified guitar, this time with lyrics analyzing his own abilities to muster on and understand himself, asking “if at then end of the river/there is more river/would you dare to swim again?,” then answering saying “surely I will stay, and I am not afraid/I went under once, I’ll go under once again.”
Needless to say, Darcy is as much a poet as he is a musician, and there are lyrics in Saturday Night that will stay with you long after the album is through, although it’s up to you to decide which to hold onto. Given Darcy’s unique voice, you might have to listen a number of times to truly grasp the essence of what he is communicating – one of the few grievances I have with the album – but once you do, the music becomes something else entirely. He also dedicates three tracks to Joan of Arc, fascinated by her passion and constant destruction of the patriarchy, his most telling line of her personality being “Joan hasn’t got a gun/ but she’ll change the tide to bury you.”
Though he fulfills many roles – the intellectual protagonist, the enraptured existentialist, the hopeful cynic – there’s a part of me that wants to leave Saturday Night with Tim Darcy being the lovesick, byronic hero he portrays himself to be in “Still Waking Up,” perhaps the most delicate track off the album. The saccharine sweet ballad is pure and unpretentious in both its Americana-esque instrumentation as well as the lyrics, and I still can’t get over the fact that he can sing the phrase “release the hounds” and still manage to sound like a hopeless romantic. It’s the simplest song off the album, but the most indicative of Darcy’s attempts to understand himself, and, by extension, the world in which he exists.
photo by Shawn Brackbill