Alex Chilton - Bach's Bottom

Line Records

The career of Alex Chilton following the disintegration of Big Star is not for the faint of heart--he's an indie darling for a reason. His at best of times tumultuous and at worst of times disastrous approach to his own craft feels less like a man trying to express himself and more so like a street-dweller administering shots of Novocaine to unsuspecting passerby. Christgau wasn't kidding when he described Chilton's music as "self-abuse". Whether this self-abuse is genuine or merely for attention remains to be seen, but "Bach's Bottom" offers neither Chilton nor his listeners a respite from the pestilential, histrionic behavior.

Throughout the record, Chilton portrays himself as a subdued yet wild-eyed ragamuffin who'll do just about anything to get his rocks off. He's careless yet deliberate, careening around the studio out of control like a rabbit on speed, declaring his desires and intentions with a tantalizing glint in his eye that makes you want to join in.

"Bach's Bottom", being what it is, doesn't pack very many punches, and can at times be hard to stomach. The record is drunkenly performative--most of it feels like a thinly veiled cry for help, the rest like a bunch of college students snuck into the music department after hours to fuck around between long swigs of Heineken.

The image of a boyish, quirky loner is what persists. Chilton, sometimes subliminally and sometimes not, is presenting a grand struggle with identity as he, for a gruelling half hour, tries and fails to harness what worked so well with Big Star and yet refuses to jell in the present. He's done the same song and dance so many times the exhaustion is beginning to get to him, yet he pushes on, possibly out of masochism but more likely out of malice.

Chilton remains casual, but not of his own accord. He drags his feet, stumbling through alleyways, him and his band in the midst of an overdose on that light-headed anesthesia music being pumped into their lungs by Chilton himself. The record is falling flat, anticlimaxes and false starts abound. The only song that seems finished in the conventional sense is "Take Me Home and Make Me Like It", perfectly in line with the kind of decrepit sexuality put on display by The Lords of the New Church for "Like A Virgin".

Relaxed and unconcerned with anything outside the studio is our enervated singer. He allows the listener a window into the world of such unsustainable musical hedonism, but doesn't really care if they stick around. He's completely satisfied. He'll continue chewing on his own leg like a dog, pacing the floor and pulling his hair. When you grab him and shake him by the shoulders, begging him to stop, to let go, to get over it, he'll laugh. He'll look you in the eyes, and smile, and say one thing: "Lower your expectations".

Rating: 4/5