Annie Clark (better known under the moniker, St. Vincent) looks peculiar wearing a guitar around her shoulders. With that demure look about her, not to mention sensational fashion sense and her most candid lyrical performance to date, you may think better of this songstress ever resorting to such an outspoken instrument. Does she even play? Is it an accessory? An attempt to look not-so-innocent? Listen to her latest album, Strange Mercy, and you may find that she plays the guitar even more oddly than she wears it. But maybe there’s something to that.
Clark’s guitar playing is actually crucial to both the listening experience and the sense of catharsis, which grows more convincing each time you listen through Strange Mercy. Though Clark favors a quirky, minimalist approach, sometimes wailing the strings, other times buzzing out muted scales, her playing functions as a strong qualifier of aggression, darkness and defiance, feelings that may slip by vocally, or otherwise seem completely unfathomable coming from such a sweet-looking girl with curly hair.
On “Cheerleader,” Clark wholly embodies teenage rebellion, bursting through the pleasant opening verse with “I, I, I, I, I don’t want to be a cheerleader no more”, the guitar hammering home each “I” like a nail. “Northern Lights” chugs along with the same driving cadence of the Velvet Underground’s “I’m Waiting for My Man.” Even the single “Cruel” (CruuUUUuuuUUUell!) draws attention to Clark’s infectious fretwork.
Yet, despite the salience of a noisy guitar, it would be wrong to say everything else on Strange Mercy is secondary. Delving deeper into the lush arrangements, further down into the dark, mysterious world Clark inhabits, is where Strange Mercy gets really interesting.
My favorite song of the album “Surgeon” imagines Clark etherized on a table, about to plunge into a state of coma before an operation. Inhibition abandoned, Clark sings the gauzy lyric. “I spent the summer on my back,” leaving us wondering if she’s merely being lewd or, in one last lucid moment, coming to grips with what might be another failed operation.
The funky, spiral-like synths propel us deeper into a dream-like territory, and we are drawn towards Clark’s idiosyncratic world. Hoping to find the cause of pain somewhere, to have something revealed by song’s end, we are only left with the provocative, “Best find a surgeon / Can’t cut me open” coming from a voice that refuses to go under.
Elsewhere, Clark seems to be the one diagnosing the problems. “Year of The Tiger” casts a dismal light on the capitalist state of mind in an economically wounded America. Clark channels the calculated swagger of a Wall-street plutocrat: “Suitcase of cash / in the back of my stick-shift / I had to be the best of the bourgeoisie / And my kingdom for a cup of coffee.” Clark also acts as consoler, offering some meditation on grief in “Hysterical Strength”—“don’t hold more than can stand to carry” she advises.
The despondent moments on Strange Mercy are arguably the most memorable. “Cruel” might have you dancing, the guitar might have you rocking out, but Strange Mercy succeeds because of its emotional complexity. Annie Clark has created a world where darkness and mystery are the main attractions. It might be the best chasm you will ever go down. Four stars for Strange Mercy.