On March 17, 1999, Jeremy Hart and I were at Rudyard’s in Houston watching the spindly, angular-looking Mark Linkous lead Sparklehorse through another chillingly poignant set. Mark and the band completed a version of “Saturday”
and an audience member loudly muttered “Fuckin’ beautiful…” in the most gruff rocker growl you can imagine. It didn’t seem entirely out of place in the smoky upstairs at Rudz (back when you could smoke…*sigh*), though you could be forgiven for laughing just a bit at the tone if you know anything about Sparklehorse’s tetched, hazy, delicate song catalog.
I’m sure the same thing went through Linkous’ head at the same time it went through mine, but his response was quicker. He went right to the mike and said “Fuckin’ thank you.”
I envision – perhaps wrongly – Linkous’ life, and especially his creative life, as a lengthy series of tightrope walks just like this. I’m sure Linkous appreciated the praise as much as he could, but he could not help but fight against the trappings of the touring existence, something he talks about here near the end of an interview. I’m sure the shorter, noisier, less poppy, less coherent tracks on Vivadixiesubmarinetransmissionplot were to counteract any impression that Linkous was even beholden to the standard structures of indie rock/pop. The Tom Waits track “Dog Door” in the midst of the gorgeous, symphonic masterpiece It’s a Wonderful Life is a big middle finger in an album that has several smaller ones, not least the title track, according to the artist himself.
What I hope Linkous realized even as he took his own life is that behind the “fuckin’ beautiful” and other various praises thrown his way was a genuine love for the heart-achingly gorgeous yet raw music and imagery that marked his Sparklehorse career. Because in the end, that phrase simply and aptly described everything Linkous tried to achieve.
Sparklehorse albums and songs aren’t coherent narratives or even incoherent ones. They are a series of vivid, stark, often graphic, occasionally heartwarming ideas and images that paint a thorough but disjointed picture of Linkous’ psyche, damaged all over, exceedingly fragile in the intact areas, but capable of creative flights beyond the reach of most. Sparklehorse was about finding the beauty in the everyday, the tragic, the unknown, in all its most natural and pure forms, uncolored by extraneous lyrics, unorganized and uncategorized. “Stars will always hang in summer’s bleeding fang”…”I can’t seem to breathe with rusted metal heart”…Songs were like laundry lists of Linkous’ unresolved dreams/nightmares. It was Linkous’ heart and mind, recorded and distributed throughout the country, nearly unedited, certainly unsorted. Just his heart and mind, right out there on the table for you and me.
That never happens. And for a man who had a previous brush with death, who fought against mental illness and addiction his entire life, that he brought and understood so much beauty was his gift to all of us. And these gifts I treasure above the others:
The near-classic-rock stride comes in right off the bat, then bass and drums confidently strutting until the 0:16 mark when Linkous’ voice quavers right over the top. Yes, that’s right, this will be no ordinary indie rock album. It will be a hazy, sunlight-tinged, earthen-toned, buried gem of a heartbreak.
“I want my records back
and that motorcycle gas tank that I spray-painted black.
The owls have been talking to me
but I’m sworn to secrecy.”
This song hits you immediately with the above stanza, possibly the greatest non sequitur in the history of modern pop music. Linkous pulls it off with the sincerity and innocence of a child – and then follows it up with recordings of his mother describing dreams of him as a child. There is something utterly beautiful about how honest and forthright this all is for him.
Amidst the loping arpeggiated banjos and wheezing harmonicas, images like “snakes eating their own tails,” “queen of nails,” and “murders of crows” build up to initially wordless choruses of rousing guitar and billowing bass that open up like daffodils on perfect spring days. Eventually, the words come into play – “pretty girl, milking a cow” – and simply repeat. Yet it manages to sound heartbreakingly good, like there’s more to it when, honestly, there may not be…it is some of Linkous’ best and most cryptic work.
The lonely duet of the muted trumpet and the heavily tremolo effect on the guitar – it takes over at 1:33 – brings the mournful aspect of this song way up and dials the menace way down. But the two in tension with each other is where the true beauty comes through. Also, when Linkous undertakes his own faint duet in the final verse, with the two previous verses juxtaposed against each other, it fairly melts me.
It is not in any way the most innovative work Linkous ever did, but this song paints a stark and glorious picture of self-hatred, punctuated with loneliness kicking at the door and a trip to a gas station bathroom to be sick. Just another beautiful Saturday night in the Virginia countryside.
Here, it’s once again how the universe simply expands in every chorus on this too-short-but-likely-intentionally-short song. Linkous understood the relationship of the bass to the rest of the band and exploited it deftly. Every time. Speaking of
Sheer beauty here: PJ Harvey having her harmony part match the descending bass line on the choruses. Pure awareness of an effect that emphasizes without being too obvious. Yet music dorks like me noticed and love Linkous and Harvey for it.
Again, a juxtaposition right off the bat between the natural glow of the pedal steel and the metallic sheen of the drum machine. The simplistic accents provided by the actual drums. Only what’s needed, plus the pillowing fog of bass, make a perfect backdrop for a plea for comfort.
And then this song. What’s my rock’n'roll dream? Learning to play the French horn, recruiting two other French horn players, and playing only the ending harmonies on this song. But that’s just one of so many pure moments of beauty, from the “electronic birds” to Nina Persson’s vocals. It makes me cry. Honestly.
You could say Linkous entered my life during a relatively lonely era and kept me company throughout. I knew if I needed company on the outer fringes of my sequestered imagination, I knew Linkous was always there. And he most assuredly will be, even as he has been through my better times. What I am having a tough time imagining is that we may have heard the last Sparklehorse album. Because no one captured a fragmented existence quite like Mark Linkous, and no one ever will.
Still, if there’s anyone who can lead me through the next uncertain phase of my existence – which promises to be plenty lonely – with an eye on what’s truly beautiful, it is Linkous. And if he ever had any doubt about the legacy he might leave, I am here to bear witness that his mark on the world, his addition to the world’s off-kilter grace, is intact. And fuckin’ beautiful.
Well done. I’m not sure if you meant to leave off the “wpaudio” tag on those last six links, but I added the tags so the songs can be played in page. If you did mean to omit the tags, just delete them and tell me to fuck off.
Oh, no, thank you for putting those tags on. Much appreciated. I think my attention span was limited after 10-12 hours of culling material and writing this weekend. Don’t know what the hell got into me…
A second Sunday post is always welcome if it’s as good as this one. I have fond memories of that Rudyard’s show as well and of that particular moment, too. Good, good times.
Also, that trumpet in Painbirds is one of my favorite things in music. Feel kinda bad that record is still the only Sparklehorse record I got all the way into. Maybe I’ll take this week to revisit.
Nice post.
Nice. Shitty year, though. Man, what a shitty year. And it’s only March. Jack Rose, Vic Chesnutt and now Linkous. I also have a music-related friend with a pretty tough prognosis in the coming months. So, yeah. Again, nice post. Trying to keep moving forward …
Yeah well done. Makes me wish Sparklehorse did it for me.