The finest composition, artistry and instrumentation is typically that which stuns you immediately and renders you speechless. These are everal respects rarely afforded to punk musicians. With the sweet sounding Seattle strum-scene on its way out and the re-emergence of modern anti-folk, it’s a stark contrast to see how countless raucous yet reserved, punk-in-mind anti-folk anthems have the tendency to leave you with that inner-glowing, cathartic effect. Beck’s 1994 classic “Loser,” Kimya Dawson’s “I Like Giants” and Feist’s “Let It Die” are a few examples of this.
Most wily anti-folk artists make their mainstay New York City (Feist excluded), strumming their hearts out with classically mundane and melancholy tones backed with fiery, metaphor-laden lyrics that juxtapose the hell out of the instrumentation. These are artists who can make the words “let it die” seem lovely, artists who can turn childlike rants about giants into a blissfully coherent metaphor about mortality and humility.
If you know much about New York’s long-lived but still budding anti-folk scene (home to Beck, Dawson and Ani DiFranco), then you’ve probably heard Jeff Lewis’ name thrown around loosely with Kimya Dawson and Adam Green’s power duo, The Moldy Peaches, a band popularized by neo-indie film “Juno.”
But, unless you’re some sort of record-collecting, anti-conformist or 1970s art-punk guru, you may be forced to take Jeffrey Lewis’ new album, “12 Crass Songs,”at face value. Crass, one of the most influential bands of the punk era, provoked anti-political revolts and empowered the youth culture of the time.
Lewis is an artist for artists. He has turned 12 of Crass’ gruffly produced songs into tuneful folk lullabies that still retain the lyrical brawn and bite of the ’70s punk scene. Jeffery Lewis, the popular comic book illustrator and anti-folk genius hailing from New York City, is a figure that should be recognized for all of his works. Whether your recognition stems from disgust for his brash and savagely brusque lyricism on his 2001 release “The Last Time I Did Acid I Went Insane” or admiration for his thought-provoking messages, Lewis deserves a listen. Songs on his new album of covers like “End Result” and “Banned From The Roxy” are reworked magically and are nothing less than stunningly compatible renditions of the originals.
Lewis’ anti-folk tonality – that sugary timbre of acoustic guitars and lifeless vocals – makes “12 Crass Songs” his own without straining too much juice out of the punk aura or taking too much away from the power and presence of the past. Lewis’ gall and guileful renditions are like mirrors and doorways to the past that should provoke the present if you’re really listening.
In times of bluntly ignored political follies and unprecedented political shifts, Lewis’ gusto to cover 12 songs by England’s most vindictive punk outfit is just the revamp the anti-folk scene and the youth culture needed.
