The Bronzed Chorus

I'm the Spring

(Hello Sir)

Record Review by Amber Henson

Here’s a tip for anyone who ever plans to visit Germany: If a German train is late, that means it not coming.  If it's 7:11, and you thought the train was coming at 7:10, it’s not held up, you read the time table wrong. Go back and check.  Sure enough, there is no 7:10 train.

This is a rule I was reminded of when listening to The Bronzed Chorus.  Because a similar rule is: if there are no lyrics in the first track on an album, there will be no lyrics on any track.  I’m sure there are exceptions to this, just like I’m sure there has been a late train in Germany (maybe).  But as soon as I got through the first track “Underpass Sunrise” on I’m the Spring and didn’t hear any lyrics, I knew that the album would be without them.

As I’ve stated before, I find lyrics important in songs, and I’m rather lost without them.  But I am still able to pick up on the feelings that songs can, with good songwriters behind them, impart.  I’m the Spring is full of a lot of fun, angst, thoughtfulness, and anger.  There are slow, building guitar parts that remind me of Pinback, and other repetitive bits that remind me of The Books.  Sometimes there are keyboard crescendos, other times sudden heavy metal endings.

Listening to the album, I was reminded of a jazz jam session.  There’s a certain amount of unprofessionality to the band.  The two members, Adam Joyce and Brennan O’Brien, are definitely on a journey, but they don’t seem to be too concerned about how or when they will get to wherever it is they’re going.

I’m sure in some ways it’s more artistic to explain oneself with a guitar than with words.  It makes my job more difficult, having to determine what exactly it is these two musicians are thinking with only quiet strums or galloping drums.  But in another way, it leaves more open to interpretation, so I can more easily project my own feelings and thoughts onto these songs, like a kind of musical fill-in-the-blank.  Perhaps these no lyrics folks are onto something . . .