by Natalia Kutsepova
od knows what sort of an itinerant being Imaginary Johnny is, toting music with him at all times. Once a bright-eyed Kansas City boy with sun-bleached hair. Maybe. Once a young man from rainy Seattle, tin-soldier-marching it through a heartbreak. Possibly. Somewhere in midtown Manhattan, a cubicled soul that didn't even know how to get sick. That, too. Or, if you please, a rather robust four-piece from Brooklyn - as sharply observant as before, but now on a grander, louder scale and with a good pinch of dylanesque sociopolitical salt. Only Chimneys is Imaginary Johnny's fourth release, with all songs written and sung, as usual, by Stuart Wolferman. The news is that Wolferman's all-instruments-played-by cocoon has been broken: the new recording has been done with a traditional full-band setup. Compared to the blissful altostrati of "Upside of the Downside" or burnt-sugar nostalgia of "Painting Over The Dirt," Only Chimneys is full of blood and force and loudness. The music, for better or worse, is out of the thicket of tender electronic beats and into the high stream of proper indy oeuvre. A scattershot attempt at "sounds like," if you will: cold-showered Grandaddy, Spoon with no sugar, and, at its best - Tom Waits, if he had a cherubic face.Technically a near-perfect recording (produced by Brooklyn's decorated soundman Joel Hamilton), Only Chimneys flows with grace, mostly holding its balances well. Musical jellybeans of every flavour are scattered all over: a banjo's stealthy twang, a sudden surge of splendid, indulgent strings, a breath of ethereal piano, a makeshift choir, even a French horn - each a delight to pick out and savour. The vocals, however, are the true focal point of the record. Wolferman's clear, luminous voice articulates emotion almost uncannily. His style is frugal and devoid of obvious histrionics; listening to him summon meaning and mood with but tiny inflections, and at times just a breath, is a rather delicate affair. That's why hearing the vocals sink deep into the mix - thankfully, this doesn't happen so often - makes one lose compassion for the artist's own choices. The hiding, however, may have been intentional, and is revealing in its own way.
The record's musical architecture holds no shockers, is tricked out but just so delicately, and is not too imaginative - Wolferman's is a different blessing, that of a hymn writer. His hymns are wrong hymns because they are humble, disarming and lovable, each sung as if with a sharp-edged lozenge on the tongue. But as with all hymns, they carry affirmation and praise and are lined with stoic acceptance. This strange marriage of qualities gives a heart a sweet ache - we hear about sadness and fear, scars and defiance, but they all are a part of a world that is loved for what it is and prayed for - a place of hope and endless wonder, even though eroding, even though falling into itself. What words don't say, the music will. Curiously, and aptly, Wolferman's hopeless utterance - "There can't always be an answer, there can't always be a plan" - loses its "t"s to the piano.
Lyrically, the record is a tangle of the naive, the wise and the obscure. As opposed to Imaginary Johnny's earlier records, Wolferman apparently strives out of the personal and into the larger, sociopolitical - if not philosophical - realm. "Civilizations," "Midwest Scorpions" (a special nod to this one for the choir and the unabashed 70s art-rock grandeur), "Your Slice" and "It'll Burn" are all red-lined with the theme of human beings' insignificance. Like milk, remembering your own smallness is good for you. It's also a great (as well as easy, trivial and abused) reason for melancholic brooding. A tiny speck against the vast background of time and space? Check. A small heartbeat lost in rhythms of shifting tectonic plates and undulating oceans? Check. Futile struggles and arrogance of creativity? But of course. "Everything that I write down / I do so it'll stick around / Everything that I write down is on paper / ... / It'll burn. It will gloriously burn. / Short burst and we float up towards the sun." "Your place in history / is not a mystery / Just a moldy shower curtain on the floor." Not fresh; mute the music and the words will fall flat, but the melodies that carry them are so stoically exultant that the effect is both eerie and delightful. The little dimes of dull old truth, they shine and twinkle again in a charmer's hands. How much for your self-importance?
"Duct Tape" and "Everyone Has A Texas Song" are pretty boxes with no keys - both, it seems, deliberately obscure. Wolferman's stories are often fragmented and/or someone else's, and you do wonder about his choices of tales to tell: a shy or aching heart won't speak of itself directly. You, however, are allowed to make guesses and eavesdrop on conversations with an invisible (or imaginary?) friend. Some lines will make you idly wonder what happened - "Is your mother taking it hard? Is your mother taking it bad?" "They asked about a girlfriend. / I'm scared of remembering. / When will they put me under? / Am I already under?" To others, you can nod contentedly - or argue with. "What do you mean by what you believe / I can't wade through it / Absolutes are land mines / Trouble in wrong hands." The more political "Fleas" doesn't fight against beliefs and absolutes; instead, it prompts - wisely, insistently, impatiently - a good questioning of our notion of tyrants and victims. And then, there is "Tiny Moving Parts." Written very soon after the Virginia Tech massacre - "33 kids to sort through" - the stark and tender piano ballad had to be carried through badlands where even a tiny misstep plunges a songwriter into a bog of opportunism and hysteria. We salute Wolferman for walking the line. Of a few who dared, fewer could do the same.
Set against the background of a crumbling city, "Falling Into Itself" is a radiant and anguished tale of finding someone who was meant to be found ("I don't believe in believing in luck"). It takes hundreds of years for a city to fall, and only a minute for a heart. They shared a taxicab. That is all, no story to follow, and was there even a story?
"Between The Days," which closes the album, is sliced in half through its middle and leaves you dizzy, like a sudden awakening would. It begins with cautious, woolly-socked piano steps of a winter morning. The alarm clock hasn't rung yet, the city is mumbling in its sleep; till the sun is up and the moon is gone, every crazy dream is free to be dreamt. The piano blooms into a magnificent sunrise; this would be the time to wash the bliss off with cold water, scoop up your sorry notions and lock them up again, but Wolferman chooses not to. Screaming through the blinding daylight of caterwauling guitars and drums, he stubbornly holds onto a chance of making the dreams real. If that's not life-affirming, we don't know what is.
And there it is, Only Chimneys - a landscape of a shy and tricky heart. What happened to its houses and railroads and people, you will find out if you do a little homework on the record's title. But the hard times are lived through, the bad wounds heal, and as long as we remember who we are, and do our work, and dream, all shall be well.