Itâ€™s hard to say which is stranger: the creative genesis of this album or its fiery critical aftermath. In retrospect, the inferno that consumed the album two years after its 1996 release feels more fictional than the actual fiction of the albumâ€™s lyrical themes. Originally conceived as a backstory for names carved into a pair of collectible guitars (a Gibson Hummingbird shown on the front cover, and a Martin D25 shown on the back, for the gearheads out there), the album imagines the histories and emotions of the carverâ€™s failed relationships. But written and arranged by Chris Holmes, the albumâ€™s intricate layers of orchestral pop became a post-mortem cause cÃ©lÃ¨bre in an escalating war of indie scene criticism. Was Holmes serious or ironic? Was his album art or merely industrial product? Was it authentic or fake? Thomas Frankâ€™s essay â€œPop Music in the Shadow of Ironyâ€ brought these questions to bear on the career of his former roommate, and much discussion ensued.
Now, decades removed from the original release and the onslaught of analysis that followed, itâ€™s difficult to imagine how the former begat the latter. For Holmesâ€™ part, he suggests that Frank misconstrued his story of an artist navigating the record industry, selecting elements that fit a handy narrative. Frank described Holmes as having run an ironic play that reversed his labelâ€™s mass-market aspirations by doubling down with music that ironically harkened back to the sunshine pop sounds of the 1960s. But decades removed from the Indie vs. Alternative imbroglio of the mid-90s, itâ€™s difficult to hear anything ironic in the albumâ€™s beautifully crafted sounds. Perhaps thatâ€™s because the made-for-AM-radio pop music from which Holmes took inspiration has turned out to have artistic value and emotional resonance thatâ€™s outlasted the taint of its arguably crass production source.
Frank labels Holmesâ€™ claims of â€œheartfelt and genuine and un-ironicâ€ as fake, and perhaps they were. He describes Holmesâ€™ musical touchstones as â€œlowbrowâ€ and â€œschlock,â€ and derides the idea that this music engenders deep, long-lasting meaning to listeners. But even if Frank is right about the layers of Holmesâ€™ intentions, heâ€™s wrong about the source musicâ€™s lasting relevance, and heâ€™s wrong about the outcome of Holmesâ€™ process. Whether or not Holmes was ironic (as were, say, Spinal Tap) or loving (as were, say, the Pooh Sticks), the end result is music to love. And if Holmes was simply faking it, he did a good enough job to render the fraud immaterial. Itâ€™s hard to imagine that either Holmesâ€™ label, or Holmes himself, thought this music could successfully fill the market space being vacated by â€œAlternative,â€ which leaves Frankâ€™s critique as more fantastic than the story he purports.
If youâ€™re already lost in the multiple levels of revisionism and meta criticism, you may want to skip Brian Dohertyâ€™s critique of Frankâ€™s essay, and the additional layers of explanation it reports from Frank and his then-editor at Harperâ€™s. It all sums to an incredible amount of critical ink spilled over a market stiff that somehow managed to become emblematic, to a certain strain of intellectual cognoscenti, of all that is wrong with the fruits of commercial production. Itâ€™s hard to recall a pop confection that caused this much critical heartburn since the Monkees complained publicly about their own artistic disenfranchisement. And much like the Monkees, Yum Yum is better taken on its musical merits than the contortions of its creation myth.
Holmes originally developed his industry cred as part of the Chicago space rock band Sabalon Glitz, but when a solo deal materialized with a subsidiary of Atlantic, he decided to pursue the orchestral pop he had bubbling on the sideline. The lessons of Sabalon Glitz arenâ€™t lost here, as the album is layered with vintage mellotron and chamberlin, strings, brass, organ, acoustic and electric guitars, bass and drums. Holmesâ€™ lyrics imagine Dan lamenting his failed relationships, reminiscing about both the joys and stings of love, closing himself off to simmer in bitter thoughts, dream of better outcomes, and imagine cautiously dipping back into the romance pool. It hasnâ€™t the stinging bitterness that informed Matthew Sweetâ€™s Girlfriend, nor the variety of musical motifs, but Holmesâ€™ hushed vocals and lyrics of romantic dissolution are effective, and his melodies are catchy, if not always sufficiently distinct to be instantly memorable.
Omnivore has resuscitated this album from the deep sea of critical burial with ten bonus tracks that include a fuzz mix of â€œUneasyâ€ that lends the song a Jesus & Mary Chain sound, along with U.K. B-side covers of Princeâ€™s â€œWhen You Were Mine,â€ the Ronettesâ€™ â€œBaby, I Love You,â€ and the Muppetsâ€™ â€œRainbow Connection,â€ and six previously unreleased demos that had been developed on for a follow-up album that never came to fruition. The gentle reimagining of the iconic hits would have kicked the critical lambasting (which was still engendering bitterness in 2011) into another gear, but add a sweet coda to the original album. The demos offer similar sounds to the album, but with an upturn in the lyrical outlook. â€œSummertimeâ€ has an outro hook worthy of the Archies (thatâ€™s a compliment), â€œI Took Advantage of the Springâ€ skips along hopefully, and though Holmes eventually re-recorded â€œHolding Out for Loveâ€ with Ashtar Command, the planned follow-up album surrendered to disappointing commercial results and â€œchanges at the record label.â€
The original album may be the rediscovered gem, but the demos show even more clearly that if Holmes was putting on a charade, it was an Andy Kaufman-like bid to maintain character. Which would have been a lot of work for no obviously attainable gain. The simpler explanation, the one that most closely fits Occamâ€™s razor, is that Holmes was sincere about this project; that he loved the pop music from which he drew nostalgic inspiration, and that these sources continue to ring with emotional resonance that inspires authentic, long-lasting emotional responses in its fans. That Thomas Frank couldnâ€™t connect with this is more a reflection of Thomas Frankâ€™s musical preferences (or rhetorical needs) than of the music, its fans, or the musicians that it influenced. Omnivoreâ€™s reissue includes a booklet featuring previously unpublished photos, and informative liner notes by Erik Flannigan, adding up to the package this album deserved from the start. [Â©2019 Hyperbolium]