Michael McDaeth is like Kurt Cobain and the Pixies if they just completely let go. (Matthew Parrish)
McDaeth is the anti-Guthrie.
(Victory Review)
This shit is from Mars.
(P Earwig)
Whether it is passion, madness or both, Michael McDaeth is a true renaissance man. Whether it be his numerous websites, including a myspace page, McDaeth continuously enthralls me. All this is due to a cd release called, The Blank Album (which, as you guessed it, has it’s own webpage, theblankalbum.com), which brazenly offers 9 slippery tracks that paint various canvases of frustration, confusion and isolation all the while making the listener either want to scratch their eyes out or buckle in sexual orgasm. I use extremes here because McDaeth is a man of extremes as well, but in a simple, yet powerful acoustic way. While I traveled between the numerous sites he has to offer, I was dumbfounded with his catalogs of music, which raises the awareness of other many madmen and their inability to stop writing and recording music. Most impressive was his work with his band, Weeds Peterson, a threesome that due to lack of desire, concentration, motivation or everything listed, never got the attention they deserved. Weeds Peterson’s release, All Hail the Coming of Weeds, is above exceptional.
Getting back to McDaeth’s solo cd, during songs like, "More Morphine Please" and "Everybody’s Fault" a mild sense of bewilderment and awkwardness is displayed reminiscent of a pre-record deal signing, Daniel Johnston, but McDaeth also has a knack for clamping down on his listeners in a precise, condescending manner. As he frantically strums his guitar like a 12 year old on white sugar and Ritalin, he also simultaneously makes his music very approachable, in a train-wreck-watching kind of way. That is, until he opens his mouth and it is apparent that McDaeth mutilates poetry with dark contrasts of subject topics, some, not even making any sense at all. But for some reason, I have this sneaky feeling, it’s just his way of poking fun at everything.
McDaeth offers multi-media fullforce. You can find it on the sites, or even in the videos that accompany his songs. As he sings "I couldn’t kill her" during "Everybody’s Fault," the listener watches a somewhat grainy film of a dog that looks like he could walk into a street of cars zooming by. In his video, "It’s a Weapon," we watch a child from above, as he races up and down a court yard on a bicycle, cardboard box as a helmet and branding (what appears) to be a plastic sword. It’s the sense of simplicity coupled with a no angle approach that gets you thinking while watching these videos.
McDaeth is also a brilliant writer and showcases his short stories on mcdaeth.com. He also penned a column for Cake Magazine between 1995 and 1996 called, "My Beautiful Blue Plastic Hammer." While The Blank Album may not be for everybody, it deserves at least, a once listen through. - review by edie - Issue 12 - Dig this Real - digthisreal.com.
Part Daniel Johnston, part Stravinsky, part Kurt Cobain, part Foggy Mountain Boys, Michael McDaeth breaks through all the frames of form and comes out the other side with something so odd, so brave, so beautiful and so irritating you won’t know what to make of it. When it hits you, it may leave a mark i.e. I hope you don’t bruise easily, i.e. I hope you don’t cry easily, i.e. I hope you dig it. It’s only one guy and only one guitar and one ill-used and slightly grumpy harmonica. How does it sound like a firestorm on Mars? Beats me. Beats me good. Go to mcdaeth.com and listen to "We’re Anonymous" from Shine In Reverse. It’ll ease you into it.
This is slam dancing for the soul. Hope you’re insured. (hap mansfield - picassobriefcase.com)
There are two types of singer/songwriters. Many of them write surface-level songs (a reflection of the "hard times" experienced during their surface-level lives) with the intent of shopping their five-song demos to labels. The others -- a far smaller group -- write to purge their systems of the toxins within, composing to maintain their day-to-day sanity. These artists have few goals beyond releasing their work to friends who pester them with, "I want to hear your music!" Okay, you asked for it.
Fortunately, artists such as Michael McDaeth are around to keep that second group alive. He’s back for a sixth solo round -- a freshly printed ink-jet label wrapped around a double-disc of madness, a continuation of his "the music started making him" explorations. Using only a guitar, a harmonica, his voice and his imagination, he works magic
There’s no need to provide a detailed account of every song on Shine in Reverse; once you’ve heard a few of McDaeth’s songs, you’ve kind of heard them all. Well, yes and no. McDaeth’s creativity isn’t housed in an explosion of multi-tracking or tape-edits. His craft is in the details, the ability to persevere in (literally) pounding out 26 songs, all in the same style -- and to your attention while he does it. He accomplishes this goal by never really finishing what he’s talking about, cutting and pasting sentences together while splicing in words and harmonica blasts to "end" phrases. You’ll consider his observations later, coming up with your own conclusions, then returning to the song to piece together your version of the story. In other words, he’s a great director who gives you the stage, a few details about the characters and a little fuel for your imagination. As dumb as it sounds, it’s refreshing to experience this type of ambiguity, given the genre’s surplus of let-me-explain-every-little-detail-so-you-don’t-have-to-think artists.
However, if you listen carefully, McDaeth’s madness is merely a façade; behind it, you’ll find an endearing songwriter who enjoys his creative freedom. When you let go of the idea that an audience or your bandmates are listening to you, as McDaeth does, you can say "fuck" and "shit", call world leaders "terrorists", ramble "duh, duh, duh, duh, duh, duh, duh", yell "shalalalalalalalala" and squeak and squawk in keys well beyond your vocal range. His insulated approach is bolstered by the courage that comes when you focus on the idea that only you and "the requisite fans" will listen to your music and "get" it. McDaeth uses this weapon to its fullest, and regardless of his angst, his performance betrays the satisfaction he derives from getting things off of his chest; think about Noam Chomsky’s peace when he corrects others, or the first John Frusciante album, or Evangelical preachers, or some of the "tortured" yet brilliant bloggers whose work you peruse every morning.
Once you get over Shine in Reverse’s initial abrasiveness, you’ll understand that McDaeth isn’t trying to be weird -- he just lets what’s on his mind come out, jagged edges and mumbling included. While his predecessors have moved on to Mitsubishi commercials and their own line of iPods, McDaeth will continue his trek, giving renewed meaning to "three chords and the truth".
You are always in the engine room of the universe. You work there. You sleep there. You eat and make love and shit and piss there. You get angry there. You find happiness there. If the universe was a shopping mall and you were looking for the cookie pizza/cinnamon roll/kettle-cooked fudge/freeze dried ice cream/candle place/martini bar and you couldn't find it so you went looking for one of those Lucite-encased mall maps to tell you how to get there, you'd see the Engine Room on the map with a little arrow pointing to it saying YOU ARE HERE. This is because everywhere you are is the engine room of the universe. The map would always tell you the same thing: YOU ARE HERE. Because you are always in the engine room of the universe.
Let's say you are listening to Mcdaeth's music and you are thinking, what is this? Is this guy crazy? What the hell kind of music is this anyway? Michael Mcdaeth must be the mayor of Crazy Town, you say to yourself. Maybe you say it out loud. You can if you want, we're not stopping you. You may be looking at the song titles and thinking, who the hell does this guy think he is, The Minutemen? Donald Wilson? (Of course, this would be contingent on whether you knew who Donald Wilson was but if you do know, you might be thinking it.) You don't know how long you can take this howling and that caterwauling and the incessant pounding on the strings and what the hell. Also, at this juncture you might even be thinking, what kind of lousy liner notes are these? Isn't Derrida dead?
They found green glass on the moon, did you know that? Also, there are some astronomers at Princeton who claim that all potential life flies around the universe on rocks. Scientists have found life existing in some form or another in volcanoes and in the deepest coldest ices of the Antarctic. You think you're special? Well, who says you're not, bub?
Perhaps now you are writing off Michael as one of those musical theory types. Maybe it's time for a sandwich or a beer. Maybe your mother's calling you. Maybe you have to be somewhere (which is, as I've already pointed out, pretty difficult for you because, do I have to say it? Fine. You are always in the Engine Room of the universe.) Ah, perhaps the music is finally sinking into you. Maybe you dig it. It could happen. It's bewilderingly refreshing, this music. MM is a solid sender. Of course, your engine room may not be able to handle the load. It's okay. It's a big universe.
Are you familiar with Heisenberg's uncertainty principle? I'm not. We've met but I'm not certain our relationship could be termed as familiar. This CD could be the musical equivalent of Heisenberg's uncertainty principle. Or maybe it's Glenn Gould playing the upside down sheet music for Blood On The Tracks on a guitar made out of auto parts. It could be the soundtrack for a knife fight on the moon. That could account for the green glass. Make up your own story, I'm tired. (Okay, I'll get you started; maybe the green glass was from a broken beer bottle. Maybe Brian Eno was there. Your turn. You make up a story. I'll wait..)
Finished? There's nobody like Michael Mcdaeth anywhere in the universe. This is his rock. You gettin' the hemi-semi-demi quavers? You rolling with the sarcastic laughter, frustrated tears, smoke-filled mystery? YOU ARE HERE; you dig?
Just because a few dozen people have passed through Michael while he sings doesn't mean he's channeling the universe. Oh, wait. That's exactly what it does mean.
Okay, the frame is broken on this picture. I'd be an idiot not to mention it. If form follows function then it's up to you to figure out why anybody listens to anything but Bach. Einstein liked Mozart. Just sayin'.
Michael made this with and for the universe. Which, now that I think on it, is you, pal. You were meant to take this personally. How else is there?
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Hi Michael, thanks for the request. Hear your music, it sounds very very good. So keep on writing such beautiful songs. Ciao from really hot sardinia, in the middle of mediterranean sea.
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