Calvin Johnson - Before The Dream Faded...

Genre rock Publisher K External Links K

On his 2002 solo debut, What Was Me, Calvin Johnson came to us naked, hardcore a cappella (at some times wholly and at others only partially), his voice the star attraction, the focal point. Ocean abyss deep, richly resonant, idiosyncratically awesome, and not even remotely conducive to the American Idol ideal of singing, those bottom-scuddling pipes are for better or worse the K Records founder-producer/Beat Happening frontman's calling card, and I want Congress to pass a Constitutional amendment making it unconstitutional - nay, unpatriotic - to listen to songs featuring Calvin Johnson's voice on anything less than an optimum bass-boost, hi-fi car stereo at canine-aggravating volumes (said legislation would of course have to include similar provisions for the Nate Dogg-related catalogue, resulting in one of the few instances in this universe where the Microphones, Obie Trice, Beck, The Halo Benders, Dr. Dre, and Heavenly could plausibly appear on the same page together). Casting aside Beat Happening's hallowed twee and Dub Narcotic Sound System's, uh, you know, Johnson threw his essence up against a sheet of expectant silence for the first time ever - covering up with acoustic guitar strum or a duet partner on occasion - crooning gravelly nu-gospel spirituals, lovesick mash notes, and basic-level folk.

Before The Dream Faded... is as three-dimensional as What Was Me was Keith Haring-poster stark; it's as though Johnson felt obliged to try on as many differed sonic textures, colors, and vocal contortions as possible this time around to make up for the copious white space he didn't fill three years back. Behold the upbeat, unabashedly libidinous glee of "Rabbit Blood," a het-up rhythm section bomping along under the influence of the Sesame Street theme as Johnson holds forth on a personal, constant lust - "a civilized man concerns himself with the problems of our time/but these bunny ears keep showing through, and I can't deny/a certain preoccupation with my disposition toward making love/I cultivate a staid exterior but this heart pumps rabbit blood" - the guitars eventually breaking down into sputters and scrapes as his dry, mantra-like repetition of the title escalates into orgasmic stuttering. The sound of a pick-ax striking hard rock provides percussion for "Red Wing Black" while lukewarm, soft-focus organ tones and Johnson's lazily cryptic phrasing carry the melody like a heavier load than it actually is. Buttressed by little more than finger snaps, keyboard jabs, shaker rattles, and the odd whistle, "I Am Without" is a clever, minimalist come-on. Before's effortless versatility proved unequivocally that Johnson's more on the ball than many give him credit for: dude can turn out charm-the-lace-panties-offa-anyone near-shoegaze pop billowing with hazy, early-10,000 Maniacs ax gauze ("Your Eyes") or a funktastic par-tay tracks built on stabbed, cubic organ sugar, fluttering horn charts, and overlapping, disembodied vocals ("Leaves of Tea") all while sounding like he hasn't broken a sweat.