EAMON THE DESTROYER: THE MAKER'S QUIT

The mighty Eamon the Destroyer resurfaces from lively Leith, Edinburgh to reveal a new, Bear Suit Records album: an experimental sojourn to rival all sojourns, The Maker's Quit. 

In so many ways, Eamon's masterpiece deserves the commemoration, for it represents that essential, intrinsic need to quit, to find a greater purpose in life, beyond what others demand, with each track representing another avenue toward peace and resolution.

The first (self-titled) track depicts a casual stroll that isn't so casual once it rolls, insinuating the euphoric dilemma of being lost out at sea or (in a more concrete way) kicking a can down the road, a cap gun or lollypop in hand, remembering the unapologetic way it used to be and should have stayed. 

"Silverback" follows, and it throws a fine, simian swagger. Once its knuckles drag, it invokes the funkiness of Lalo Schifrin's disco-ization of television's Planet of the Apes. Eamon inserts an unmistakable, primal spine to this one, with a groove that's as contagious as it's untamed. 

"Three Wheels" could be considered a tricycled variant of the former, another sprawling, spry whimsy, though filtered through an adult's ears. This one reaches for a spin-out sensation, cooking something that perhaps a New Age Elvis might devour, jiggling along, "singing a happy song," despite its lifelong woe. 

"The Ocean" recalls the initial track's ebb, but expands further upon such. The feeling is vast, leaving one content to drift, but in the end, Eamon turns the serene context into a facetious crawl, seated by a gasping guffaw.

"Captive" is perhaps the most behavioral of the album, as it bids "goodbye to sadness" and for that matter, any and all shackling locations. It's an escape from a place where freedom is prohibited, taking an anchored plea and bending it with ironic glee. 

"Firefly in the Leg" is as jumpy as the title implies, inspiring one to gyrate and kick. It's an unofficial, Sid and Marty Krofft theme, so full of jubilation that one can't help but prance into the sunset. 

"Pleasureland" gets even more exotic, as Eamon spreads a heavy, Spanish coating upon his chords. In this case, one might envision a seductive senorita, into whose arms one might sway, mingled by all the bells and whistles a libido could lay. 

"The Buffalo Sings" could be Eamon's finest of the epic queue, signaling a swansong to one's dying doubts. It declares the necessity to wait until one "runs out of rope" or in the very least, "until the buffalo sings," which isn't likely to happen, and that's the point, not only of this particular composition, but the album in whole. 

Eamon's rough, poignant vocals tie his musical reveries with wistful, tender cohesion, solidifying the album as one of the best conceptual experiences of the year. 

Quit the burdensome mundane and join Eamon  at

https://bearsuitrecords.bandcamp.com/album/the-makers-quit  

EAMON THE DESTROYER: RADIO SESSIONS

Eamon the Destroyer's latest, Radio Sessions, enlists the varied grooves that we seek whenever we turn the dial. In this case, they're "stripped down," acoustic renditions (with a few embellishments added here and there) of six of his established creations, but no matter their emanations, Radio Sessions taps the emotional constitutions that give old favorites new spins, allowing our emotions to ascend or descend, depending on the transmissions (those revised versions) dealt. 

"Nothing Like Anything" is whistly and breezy, with a tonality that's truthful and glitz-less. It references humility through "little feet in my hands": something born, breathing and nurtured during that promising time when "the sun is out." It's also about a "restless heart," of traveling far beyond and heading back home, of bouncing back and forth in life, discovering the things that one has never known, and from that awakened point, will never forget.

If "Nothing Like Anything" holds an upswing implication, "Underscoring the Blues" represents the sad song that soothes the soul. Its raw "God knows"-woe is ironically hopeful and calliope-pumped, with sounds/vocals that are at once judgmental and instructional, but also giddy enough for a circus clown to embrace, as he smiles his way through the tears.

"We'll Be Piranhas" (a fabulous song in any version) reworks and teases Bowie/Eno's "Heroes," imagining pirates, conquest and attack. Eamon's rugged vocals are sweet as butter, which makes his lyrics' all the more cutting edge, somehow both poignant and whimsical within the nimble niche he digs.

"Silver Shadow" depicts a ride in a small, blue car, under summer skies: a swift, sleek composite to epitomize the long stretch of an arduous journey. In its unfettered form, it's the Flash or Quicksilver zooming at lightning speed, only to skid to a hard halt, all in the name of love, all to put one's arms around another, to hold onto someone who summons the deepest essence, which breaks and resonates with nothing but a tender plea. 

"Avalanche" represents a from-the-throat aftermath, a situation formed and carved, piled in a loved one's yard. It identifies a chink in that person's armor, as a dark star descends, riding on to draw all the flaws that were once hidden, but now beam for all the angelic beauty they hold. 

In response to this euphoric realization, there comes "The Choirmaster," an introspective, Piranhas piece that makes peace with the world. It recalls the smooth shuffle of "Nothing Like Anything," though with greater, piercing resonance. There's also a trace of gratitude that presses through, an acceptance for what stands, and what stands deserves a cathedral's exaltation, a profound punctuation to trek onward and make the best of what one possesses (something that all the best, radio tunes project).

Radio Sessions is a satisfying, musical sojourn, a audio look down memory lane, as well as a glimpse toward the future, of expressing the essential juice that flows through one's veins, and for all the emotional baggage it drags, it deposits one on a higher level. 

After listening to this six-part, revisionist epic, don't be surprised if you bestow Eamon's expressed gratitude (and humanity) straight back to him. After all, he understands. He knows. So will you. 

Tune to Radio Sessions (courtesy of Bear Suit Records) at

https://bearsuitrecords.bandcamp.com/album/radio-sessions

and

https://bearsuitrecords.bandcamp.com/album/radio-sessions

EAMON THE DESTROYER: A SMALL BLUE CAR

Eamon the Destroyer may sound heedless in name, but his musical constructions are as intricate as they're insane. 

Case in point, his new (Bear Suit Records) release: A Small Blue Car: It denotes something quaint, simple, of no immediate threat, but the Destroyer knows how to smear any pretentious gleam through his unpretentious glint. 

As such, some of Small Blue Car starts off idyllic, but the softness is a ruse, a means to careen one toward its dim, dusty trails.  

"Silver Shadow" presses this notion, zooming like the Flash or Quicksilver along ever entwining turf,  hoping to land in some safe destination, but we all know the climax will likely finish with a splat. 

"A Slow Motion Fade" invokes a similar texture, but by its conclusion, its pacifying reverberation creates an event horizon, beyond which any number of outcomes may exist, but its devilish tonality suggests only the sinful. 

"My Drive" carries the same prickly torch, albeit in a cowpoke way (think Tom Waits gurgling country western), and "Nothing Like Anything" assures the best of both worlds: escapism from a dismal life, encoded as a fractured Christmas carol.

"The Tide to Steal Away" might be the most fickle of this cynical group: a whimsical spark that feels like the end-cut of the original Blade Runner, instilling an against-the-odds dream and hopeful(?) vow.  

Other tracks confirm journeys ended and the strange aftermaths that ensue. "The Conjuring Stop" is one such example, essaying the hurt one feels when religion falls flat. "Uledaru" accentuates this grating confirmation, much like a drop-off with the spectral Charon at the Gates of Hell. "Tomahawk Den" and "Avalanche" are without question the edgiest of these stationary dreads: pockets of chaos that buzz and whir like Amityville flies.

Aside from these audio think-pieces (all of which are greater than great), my favorite track goes a tad against the general grain. "Humanity is Coming" allows the Destroyer to bemoan his lament for a vanguard of nasty normality, but then isn't that the precise thing we wish to evade whenever we drive our small, blue car? 

Why shell out for some come-and-go getaway when the Destroyer's audio vessel veers one straight to where one belongs? One need only listen, crash and (with a jeering grin) burn: 

https://bearsuitrecords.bandcamp.com/album/a-small-blue-car