The Unspeakable Practices
Reviewed by: Max Miller
Although they disbanded in 2012 following the death of founder Kathi Kamen, the Rock Bottom Remainders gained notoriety for featuring a revolving lineup of famed authors including Stephen King, Amy Tan and Barbara Kingsolver. The Remainders didn’t take themselves overly seriously, though, with sometime member Dave Barry noting, “We play music as well as Metallica writes novels.”
Barry’s self-deprecating quip captures the main reason many writers, while kingpins in the worlds of journalism or literature, fail to transition smoothly into the world of music. Just as a writer must take years to surpass idol worship and develop his or her own voice, so too must a musician. When someone like Barry or King picks up an instrument or a mic, all their love of music ends up getting in the way, leaving them with a derivative, often self-indulgent mess.
Writer Rick Moody has had little luck defending against claims of self-indulgence, even within his primary field. As author of novels like Garden State and The Ice Storm and as essayist and critic for various publications, Moody’s love-it-or-hate-it style and attitude infamously caused fellow writer Dale Peck to label him as “pretentious, muddled, moody, derivative, [and] bathetic.” More recently, Moody came under fire for his critical takedowns of such beloved pop icons as Taylor Swift and Daft Punk.
While he has performed in the past with folk group the Wingdale Community Singers, Moody’s new musical project alongside drummer Kid Millions of Oneida, the Unspeakable Practices, is more akin to his writing in its divisiveness. Accompanied by guitarist Shahin Motia (also of Oneida), bassists Brad Truax (of Interpol and Spiritualized) and Richard Hoffman (of Sightings), organist David Grubbs (of Squirrel Bait and Gastr Del Sol), saxophonist Michael Foster and trumpeter Nate Wooley, Moody and Millions jammed until their improvisations led to the eight songs on the experimental octet’s self-titled debut LP.
Opener “Early Warning System” serves as just that. Over a mounting pulse of discordant noises, Moody shouts “WIDE AWAKE AGAIN” and “WHAT THE HELL” in a grating, nasally voice. At just under three minutes, it’s the listener’s sign that this is the last chance to turn back; somehow, Unspeakable Practices’ compositions become even less cohesive from here on out. As his bandmates assemble a hodge-podge of dissonant noise, free jazz and krautrock influences into loosely-structured movements that sound like zoo animals being massacred, Moody continues to shout seemingly stream-of-consciousness nonsense.
The Unspeakable Practices represents the absolute nadir of this sort of pretentious experimentation passing as some kind of high art. You can almost see the smugness oozing out of Moody’s pores like a musky sweat. The record borrows all the signifiers a 54-year old white man who thinks he’s too smart for the music of Taylor Swift would deem interesting enough for his oh-so-refined tastes. With every bleat and skronk, it’s as if the Unspeakable Practices are challenging the listener to criticize their music so they might scoff and say, “You just don’t get it.” I’d much rather listen to someone like Swift, because even if her music is “about as interesting as…tiered Jell-O dessert products,” as Moody put it, I’d gladly hear something well-crafted and conventional. Listening to the Unspeakable Practices is like being promised dessert and being treated instead to a bowl of dog vomit.
Rating: Intolerable
