Everyone has an incredibly funny friend in their crew who is always quick with the observational humor. Nonetheless, there are fewer and fewer comedians actually worth caring about. How is this? Simple: there's a big difference between noticing stuff and actually offering some insight.
This chasm is the one e. (born Mark Everett) struggles to keep in balance during the span of the eels' fourth proper release, "Souljacker." Though there are moments when he lands on either side, most of the album finds him wobbling in the middle.
"Souljacker" represents a monumental shift in the focus of e.'s lyrics, regardless of the fact that "World Of Sh-t" is not just the title of the 10th song, but probably a phrase he'd want on his tombstone. This time out, though, e. has taken a big step by acknowledging ever so slightly that someone's life may suck as bad as his.
The relative reprieve from e.'s internal wrangling on "Souljacker" is a necessary and likely to prove unpopular move. The eels have spent the last four years trying to fully exorcise the chronic misery and pitch-black humor that defined the minor classic "Electro-shock Blues." The death of nearly all of e.'s family gave his crippling despair the laser-beam focus he needed to transcend the poor man's Beck status he was destined for since his "Loser" companion piece, "Novocaine For The Soul." His one true hit introduced e. as a man who needed a new drug, and in a way that is so 1994, it was ironic distance. Problem is, ironic distance's close relative is half-assedness, which has haunted the eels more than their inner demons.
On the 2000 follow-up to "Electro-shock," "Daisies Of The Galaxy," they never seemed comfortable with the attempt at shiny-happy kitsch, and e. treated the hilarious prospect of "wearing newspapers for pants" with the resignation usually reserved for prostate cancer.
This time out, he attempts to reinvent himself as a quizzical Tom Waits-ish storyteller, but what can we expect from someone whose idea of a zinger is "life is funny / but not ha-ha funny"? Not surprisingly, e.'s like that funny friend you have: he notices stuff, but never really provides any insight. Intended quips like "Mom won't shave me / Jesus can't save me" on "Dog Faced Boy" are laudable for, if anything, the fact that they rhyme. Like fellow one-man show Trent Reznor, e. could have used a surly bassist threatening to bring in his own material if he doesn't stop confusing "rhyming lyrics" with "good lyrics." Worked for the Goo Goo Dolls.
Waffling between distance and depth, e. makes the listener work hard to spot any real growth in his songwriting. In "That's Not Really Funny," e. rants over a lover's smarmy jabs, but when the lyrics themselves fail to deliver any sort of punchline, who is he to criticize someone's sense of humor? The protagonists in "Woman Driving, Man Sleeping" travel drowsily without really getting anywhere, kinda like the song itself. As for "Bus Stop Boxer," e. jacks the soul of Paul Simon's pugilist and does little else but relocate him to you-know-where.
Wherever the narrative portion of "Souljacker" falters, however, the strength of e.'s studio prowess picks up the slack and makes everything interesting, at the very least. The eels have learned to stop worrying and love the rock; "Souljacker" is by far their loosest album, sounding like what "Midnite Vultures" would be if Beck was goofing on Ted Nugent instead of Prince. The menace e. only partially equivocates in the pariahs of "Dog Faced Boy" and "Souljacker Pt. 1" finds its voice in the fuzzed-out "Cat Scratch Fever" and Chuck Berry riffs. The relationship politics of "That's Not Really Funny" are nowhere near as interesting as its outrageously dirty, rock-'em, sock-'em samples. And despite not having much of a point, with the help of P.J. Harvey collaborator John Parish, "Woman Driving, Man Sleeping" is bulls-eye accurate in sonically detailing an empty stretch of highway at 4 a.m.
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The more consistently successful half of "Souljacker" is the result of lesser ambitions, resembling the agreeable laboratory-pop of "Novocaine For The Soul," and "Mr. E's Beautiful Blues," the latter known mostly to owners of the "Road Trip" DVD. "Friendly Ghost" and "Bus Stop Boxer" are just as hooky, but unlike the eels' previous hits, they don't try very hard to be liked. The rolling funk of "Jungle Telegraph" reaffirms that e. might be the only white rock guy not to graduate from the Sugar Ray "Fly" School of Drum Programming.
There's a potential hit on their hands in "Fresh Feeling," less because of the strings and Casio drums that float like a summer breeze and more because it could, with some luck, become the anthem of choice for personal hygiene ad-men who totally missed the boat on the Big Tymers' "Get Your Roll On."
"Souljacker" is as tuneful and accomplished an album as you could realistically expect in 2002 from a band whose enduring legacy will likely find itself sandwiched between "Lump" and "Hey Man, Nice Shot" on Totally '90s CDs. Try to find someone who bought the new Stabbing Westward album if you think differently. It may please the novices, but the incomplete promise of e.'s second attempt to turn the corner after "Electro-shock Blues" may have the hardcore fans secretly wishing for more unthinkable tragedy in his life.
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