By Melissa Fossum
By Lauren Wise
By New Times
By Amanda Savage
By Jason P. Woodbury
By Troy Farah
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So, instead of talking about Girls Can Tell, the new album by Daniel's Austin-based band Spoon, we're arguing the various merits and demerits of The Gift, O Brother, Where Art Thou? and Snatch, though Daniel doesn't have much to add other than the occasional, "Yeah, I wanna see that." We're not discussing why each of Spoon's three albums has been released on a different label. Or why the band has gone through bass players like guitar strings. Or why some people think Britt Daniel is both a talented songwriter and a complete asshole. (For the record, he seems nice enough.) No, we're trying to figure out why someone would go see three movies in a weekend if it weren't part of his job. Neither of us is coming up with any satisfactory answers.
All the while, Daniel is not doing a good job of holding up his end of the conversation, or covering up that fact. He's still signing checks and sealing envelopes, judging by the constant shuffling of papers and distracted sentences. He's like a 16-year-old kid forced into a chat with his grandfather, only able to muster a few grunted uh-huhs and yeahs until he's finished, finally let off the hook. There are two ways you can take Daniel's behavior, and neither of them really matters. Fact is, it's surprising that Daniel is willing to play the game at all anymore. Then again, maybe he actually believes the third time is the charm.
See, Daniel was supposed to be a star by now, or at the very least, big enough to guest host his own hour on MTV2 with Jancee Dunn. It should've happened in 1996 when Matador Records released Telephono, an album that would have made him a millionaire if, a) good reviews were legal currency, or b) being in a Pixies cover band paid well. And 1998's A Series of Sneaks was even more critically acclaimed, which made Elektra Records (Spoon's label at the time) so happy it decided to shit-can the group less than four months after the album's release. Elektra's love-'em-and-leave-'em handling of Spoon led to 1999's "The Agony of Lafitte"/"Lafitte Don't Fail Me Now" single, a two-song letter bomb aimed at former A&R rep Ron Lafitte and Elektra president Sylvia Rhone. ("Are you honest with anyone?" Daniel asks Lafitte point-blank on "Lafitte Don't Fail Me Now.") If Daniel can't be bothered to play the good soldier this time around, you can hardly blame him.
That's not the case, however; now that the last envelope is stamped, he's ready to talk. He's willing to talk mainly because with Girls Can Tell, Spoon has recorded the best album of its seven-year life span. And Daniel knows it.
"I don't know what happened, but, I mean, in the months after we were done touring for A Series of Sneaks, I just started coming up with these songs that were . . ." He trails off. "I didn't really know if the band was going to go on, and I was more like, writing songs -- this sounds silly -- I was writing them for me," Daniel continues, chuckling softly. "I realize the air that that puts on by me saying that, but you know, I didn't know if those songs were going to come out at all. I didn't know if I was going to use them in Spoon or a different band or whatever. And for whatever reason, I started coming up with stuff that is clearly way better than anything I've ever written before."
It doesn't take long to confirm Daniel's critique of the songs on Girls Can Tell. The album-opening "Everything Hits at Once" is pretty much a perfect soul song -- beautiful and sad as a Hollywood funeral -- Daniel's voice dripping with pure ain't-too-proud-to-beg desperation: "Everything hits at once," he moans and groans. "What we needs is just what we wants." Draped in mellotron (courtesy of . . . and you will know us by the trail of dead's Conrad Keely) and vibes, the song is the most embellished track on the album, yet it sounds as though nothing exists except for Daniel, his guitar and a ton of hurt feelings; everything else fades into the scenery. Quiet and intense as a pot of boiling water, "Everything Hits at Once" nails the vibe of classic Stax/Volt sides, if not the sound exactly.
"That's a cool thing," Daniel says, a bit surprised by the comparison. "I'm glad that it gives off that impression. Obviously, we're not soul players. It'd be cool to put that feeling across. I love the Supremes. I love all that Motown stuff. And we wanted this to sound, in some places, like sort of a '60s record."
Girls Can Tell doesn't really sound like a '60s record, but it definitely feels like one, with songs that capture the possibilities of the era rather than the guitar tone or drum sound. There is nothing here that smacks of tribute, nothing you can put your finger on, at any rate. On the other hand, there is plenty of influence at work, and that's not a bad thing in Daniel's case. He's a bit like Elvis Costello, taking all the albums he grew up listening to and playing them back in his own style. Daniel's even got the same knife wounds from life and love that fueled so much of Costello's early material. "The end will come slow," Daniel sings on "Believing Is Art." "And love breaks your heart."