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In the U.S., news of Silverchair's break-up might seem particularly unappealing as a rock and roll story. For most, Silverchair must have appeared to be lingering in a post-grunge haze, occassionally releasing a lackluster album every few years to satisfy an ever-dwindling fanbase of misguided nostalgics. That is, of course, assuming that someone actually remembered who they were. If they were remembered, I'm sure there would be a near-buried image of a music video of with a guy who looks Taylor Hanson, and a man in a pig-mask, for some reason. The song in that video would probably rock, but wouldn't seem significant now.
The problem is, while they were once contemporaries of Bush, Hole, Live (and other monosyllabic post-grunge bands), they had evolved significantly since their early fame, and had established a new present for themselves; where nostalgia and Greatest Hits tours weren't necessary. True, they seemed destined for an early death: they were cursed with an explosive early fame, based on a decreasingly-popular style of music and teenaged good-looks. Their first album, Frog Stomp was a bonafide U.S. hit, but their next two Freak Show and Neon Ballroom tested the fatigue of the public. Next came singer Daniel Johns' public bout with anorexia, which didn't mix too well with the jock-rock wave that was sweeping over the States, where Staind, Korn and Linkin Park assuming the role of hard rock's new tortured artists.
A live Silverchair show around 1999 would have revealed a talented, yet tired band with nowhere to go. Their best loved songs were from their first batch, and the newer hits didn't have the swagger and youthful appeal that they should have had. Even loyal fans wouldn't have expected a rebirth of the band after that point, but they were given new life by an unlikely ally: the piano.
During a yearlong hiatus 2000-2001, singer Daniel Johns tackled his issues with the gentle touch of songwriting via piano. Working on piano gave his songs a richer sound, a complex blending of tones, keys, modes and motifs that the rock guitar can rarely emulate. In addition, the writing style gave way to a fresher approach to the rock guitar that still was a basis for many album tracks. On Diorama, the new songs showcased a hugely ambitious sound, complete with full orchestra arrangements, numerous key changes, wild melodic and harmonic shifts, and a vocal prominence that belied their previous work. Songs such as "Across The Night," "Tuna In The Brine," brought a sophistication that was completely unheard of for bands of their era. The album ends with the gorgeous "After All These Years", a piano-vocal outing that has the touch and twists of a McCartney ballad. Aside from a few lyrical missteps, the album is as enjoyable and inspirational today, 10 years after it's release.
At this point, the band live was a force of nature. Daniel Johns wielded the presence and confidence that would propel the band further down their new path. The rock songs rocked harder, his voice was clear and confident, his piano playing was expressive and often improvisational; the band had truly transformed certain disaster into new life.
Their next album, Young Modern, combined much of the pomp and orchestral aspects of Diorama, with several razor-sharp pop-rock songs. Songs like "Straight Lines" were tight, excellent efforts, designed to be catchy, yet unpredictable. The album also revealed their most ambitious song to date, their "Thieving Birds" suite, a whip-smart arrangement of Beach Boys-esque pop and flowery baroque obsessiveness. The album failed to catch fire in the U.S., but was well-received by fans and critics worldwide. The live shows that followed this album were monstrous. The band now had more than enough material to play to their "new era" fans and didn't have to cherry-pick their old hits to engage their audience. I remember hearing a complaint by a concert-goer after seeing them at this time, who loudly moped, "They didn't even play Tomorrow!" That fan didn't get much of a response, as it was clear most of us weren't at all interested in watching the band dig that far back for nostalgia's sake. For all of us at the show, the current Silverchair was the one we really wanted to see.
Now that they've officially called it a day, it's comforting to know that their departure wasn't a tragedy, but a dignified resignation by a near 20-year band. The may have not reached the heights of rock royalty, but their unusual career path and frequent successes will surely read as an interesting chapter of music history.
In the U.S., news of Silverchair's break-up might seem particularly unappealing as a rock and roll story. For most, Silverchair must have appeared to be lingering in a post-grunge haze, occassionally releasing a lackluster album every few years to satisfy an ever-dwindling fanbase of misguided nostalgics. That is, of course, assuming that someone actually remembered who they were. If they were remembered, I'm sure there would be a near-buried image of a music video of with a guy who looks Taylor Hanson, and a man in a pig-mask, for some reason. The song in that video would probably rock, but wouldn't seem significant now.
The problem is, while they were once contemporaries of Bush, Hole, Live (and other monosyllabic post-grunge bands), they had evolved significantly since their early fame, and had established a new present for themselves; where nostalgia and Greatest Hits tours weren't necessary. True, they seemed destined for an early death: they were cursed with an explosive early fame, based on a decreasingly-popular style of music and teenaged good-looks. Their first album, Frog Stomp was a bonafide U.S. hit, but their next two Freak Show and Neon Ballroom tested the fatigue of the public. Next came singer Daniel Johns' public bout with anorexia, which didn't mix too well with the jock-rock wave that was sweeping over the States, where Staind, Korn and Linkin Park assuming the role of hard rock's new tortured artists.
A live Silverchair show around 1999 would have revealed a talented, yet tired band with nowhere to go. Their best loved songs were from their first batch, and the newer hits didn't have the swagger and youthful appeal that they should have had. Even loyal fans wouldn't have expected a rebirth of the band after that point, but they were given new life by an unlikely ally: the piano.
During a yearlong hiatus 2000-2001, singer Daniel Johns tackled his issues with the gentle touch of songwriting via piano. Working on piano gave his songs a richer sound, a complex blending of tones, keys, modes and motifs that the rock guitar can rarely emulate. In addition, the writing style gave way to a fresher approach to the rock guitar that still was a basis for many album tracks. On Diorama, the new songs showcased a hugely ambitious sound, complete with full orchestra arrangements, numerous key changes, wild melodic and harmonic shifts, and a vocal prominence that belied their previous work. Songs such as "Across The Night," "Tuna In The Brine," brought a sophistication that was completely unheard of for bands of their era. The album ends with the gorgeous "After All These Years", a piano-vocal outing that has the touch and twists of a McCartney ballad. Aside from a few lyrical missteps, the album is as enjoyable and inspirational today, 10 years after it's release.
At this point, the band live was a force of nature. Daniel Johns wielded the presence and confidence that would propel the band further down their new path. The rock songs rocked harder, his voice was clear and confident, his piano playing was expressive and often improvisational; the band had truly transformed certain disaster into new life.
Their next album, Young Modern, combined much of the pomp and orchestral aspects of Diorama, with several razor-sharp pop-rock songs. Songs like "Straight Lines" were tight, excellent efforts, designed to be catchy, yet unpredictable. The album also revealed their most ambitious song to date, their "Thieving Birds" suite, a whip-smart arrangement of Beach Boys-esque pop and flowery baroque obsessiveness. The album failed to catch fire in the U.S., but was well-received by fans and critics worldwide. The live shows that followed this album were monstrous. The band now had more than enough material to play to their "new era" fans and didn't have to cherry-pick their old hits to engage their audience. I remember hearing a complaint by a concert-goer after seeing them at this time, who loudly moped, "They didn't even play Tomorrow!" That fan didn't get much of a response, as it was clear most of us weren't at all interested in watching the band dig that far back for nostalgia's sake. For all of us at the show, the current Silverchair was the one we really wanted to see.
Now that they've officially called it a day, it's comforting to know that their departure wasn't a tragedy, but a dignified resignation by a near 20-year band. The may have not reached the heights of rock royalty, but their unusual career path and frequent successes will surely read as an interesting chapter of music history.
One of the best shows I have ever seen was Silverchair during their Young Modern tour. They were just incredible from start to finish. I will miss their music because they really did come into their own with Diorama and Young Modern and I would have loved to see what came next. I guess the solo albums will fill in the gaps (hopefully).
ReplyDeleteThese guys spiked the ball at the one yard line. The next batch of songs would have been their "Purple Rain."
ReplyDelete