Album: Moon Pix
Artist: Cat Power

by Nicholas Sabin

I have been a night-owl since high school. It's very rare that I'm in bed before midnight, even if I'm sick. I'm more comfortable with moon light, and I find a sky full of stars to far surpass a sunset in beauty. In my more poetic moments, I even claim Cyrano de Bergerac's belief that the moon is actually heaven, and all the souls that he loves were sent there after their bodies left the Earth. Moon Pix, released in 1998 on Matador Records, is a similar record in that Chan Marshall writes it with the tone and sensibility that I would expect of someone who felt a similar kinship to all things lunar.

Mixing the confessional lyrics of Alanis Morrissette with the ethereal, melancholy sounds of Mazzy Star, the words between the notes of Moon Pix are a series of in-joke kindnesses and veiled accusations, leaving no real hint as to who is being revered or reviled. In "Cross Bones Style" (my favorite track on the record), she sighs a plea for rescue: "oh come, child / come and rescue me / 'cos you have seen some / unbelievable things." One of Chan Marshall's greatest gifts is her ability to combine multiple emotions in the same word; the aforementioned words of "Cross Bones Style" are alternately desperate and affectionate whereas another, less forgiving track, "Metal Heart," sings of someone "losing the call and you've been faking / and I'm not kidding," using a tone that is disappointed without being angry, frustrated without losing temper. There exists a threat between the lines, and it is nearly impossible to miss it.

This is not to say that Moon Pix is a cold record; tracks like "No Sense" and "American Flag" provide extroverted interludes to the withdrawn melodies of the rest of the album; songs like this grab your attention by the sheer nature of their contrast. Inasmuch as Chan Marshall's lyrics can be multifaceted, her vocal range has the same flexibility - the sweet sense of tenderness in her voice on "Colors and the Kids" is unmistakable, and yet it can seamlessly flip over to a subtle hint of a tired patience in "Say." There is no screaming on the record, mainly because there is no need for it - the emotions put forth are clearly stated, immediate but not obvious.

Equally disarming is the minimalist, unstructured nature of the songs on Moon Pix, many of which seem as though they could be performed as poetry, read instead of sung. The instrumentation - usually a single guitar accompanied by drums - serves to compliment the music, rather than direct it, and it alternately swells and ebbs based on the nature of the words sung. Thematically, Moon Pix is the kind of record I would play on a late night's drive to nowhere in particular, the kind of night in which you're breathing the cosmic ether and using your own whims as the road map.