ja

Joseph Arthur kind of snuck up on us from behind in 2000 with his debut Come To Where I'm From. None of the major magazines had so much as heard of him, and all of a sudden Entertainment Weekly proclaimed the album the years best. Up against Coldplay's debut, Travis' grand The Man Who . . . and I am Shelby Lynn, Arthur's debut was certainly not the best of the year; still it an impressive splash from a fiercely gruff new voice, who embodied the melodic pathos of Elliot Smith and the gloomy quirkiness of E. Everett of Eeels and Sparklehorse' Mark Linkous.

Lore has it that Arthur was discovered in some dive by Peter Gabriel, still neither Peter's help or Entertainment Weekly's proclamation has been enough to raise Arthur above obscure singer-songwriter status. Following up after a somewhat ho-hum sophomore release Redemption's Son, Arthur's third is his most focused and accessible - but finds him wandering further and further from his strength. That being his razor sharp and gritty voice scratching and piercing about as he explores the darkness with strong melodies and observant lyrics.

After numerous listens I've warmed up to Our Shadows Remain, but it certainly is different animal than his previous work. Much of Shadows is surprisingly overproduced, with several fruity and floral arrangements and a lot of obtrusive drum programming. The first single is obviously influenced by Ryan Adams and the third track sounds like something off of Peter Gabriels first few solo albums. Big and angry and bombastic. There are a good measure of nuggets to be unearthed with patience, "Echo Park," and "lsdkf" are terrific and eventually you begin to warm up to much of this record.

His lyrics this time out are a mixed bag, sometimes brutally introspective and other times focused on topics such as war and politics, by and large, this record represents Arthur't attempt to find a more mainstream audience as well crawl his way out of the darkness into the light. It's a journey that has it's missteps, but ultimately one worth taking

Jeff Hubbard

Kyle, I'm incredibly jealous that you had a chance to meet Smith, and that you had such great experiences with him. I would love to have had a better sense of the man, because I love his music dearly.

Strangely, I've never really bought the depressive, suicidal critical take on Smith's music. I tend to relate all of his music to the glorious "I may not seem quite right/but I'm not fucked, not quite" couplet from "Bled White," one of my very favorite Smith songs. Whether it's just the glorious optimism inherent in his uplifting melodies, or the beautiful wit in his best lyrics, I've always come away from his music feeling better for the experience, not worse. That's part of why his suicide hit me as so shocking and truly affecting. I really believed that he would pull himself out of the morass, and it's that sense that makes it hard for me to believe it really was a suicide - we may never know the truth.

Nothing will ever detract from the sheer joy I get from Smith's best music, but, and man, I hate to say it, this album won't rank as such. Sheer sentiment and sadness prevent me from saying how disappointing I really find this album, but I've got to say that this album shows a Smith that was out of touch with his muse, both lyrically and melodically. The production isn't a problem, or rather it is, but not in the sense that fans of Smith's first few albums might think. My nagging sense is that the layers of distortion and pseudo-psychedelic effects that clutter the album are distractions to cover for some of the weaker writing I've ever heard from Smith. To compare this album, as many other critics have, to "Figure 8" is an extreme disservice to the latter's majesty, and stikes me as a gloss. Sure, both are heavier on distored guitars and full arrangements, but whereas "F8" contained sublime, unconventional, yet utterly infectious melodies like those on "LA," "Son of Sam," Happiness," and "Somebody that I Used to Know," this album offers only intermittent melodic snippets that attempt to function as hooks, but seem scattered and unfocused.

God, look, I love Smith's music as much as any in the canon of popular music, so I desperately wanted this album to be "Either/Or" or "XO" caliber material. But it's not, and I feel like that should be noted, not out of any sort of desire to smear an artist that I dearly love, but as an objective caveat to new buyers who might buy this album because of the press, and conclude that Smith was really no big thing. To the contrary, he was a perfect case, musically, if ever one existed. Any of Smith's other records are ample evidence of that fact.

In the end though, this record is certainly not awful, and by many standards, it's fine stuff. Just for perspective, I'll resort to a crass star rating and give it a solid three. So there it is.

George Blanda

Wrong. This album is the worst one ES ever made. Come on people. Even Joanna Bolme's involvement ain't helping. The writing, production, playing, blah, blah, blah suck compared to: XO, Either/Or, Figure 8, etc. I think meeting Elliot did a little starfuck with Lady England here. Show some reviewer spine and call this album a fucked up posthumous mess.

Penny

One night while my twenty-one year old brother, eight year old sister and i where on our way to catch a movie, we were about to exit the car when 'Memory Lane' came on. While we were moving out we just froze, this song was beautiful. So my brother and i just sat back down to listen to it, while my little sister complained about us missing the movie. We were mesmerized, by the beautiful acoustic sound and melancholy lyrics. So a few days later we bought the album, it was only then that i realized after reading an article that Elliot had in fact died only recently. The thought of this musician never creating something again is heart renching, because this album is truly a work of pure Beatle inspired genius. He and his music will be missed.

zoewhat68

Elliot Smith is the best artist , poet, songwriter, et al..... His music hypnotic and addicting. Bravo, old friend. R.I.P.