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it seems that fearlessness can take almost any form these days: It's what you hear in the wide gashes of guitar sound on "From the Muddy Banks of the Wishkah," and in Sleater-Kinney lead singer Corin Tucker's eerie vibrato, the sound of an ocean queen who can conjure a storm at sea by sheer force of will. On their debut LP, "Charcoal," the Champaign, Ill., trio Sarge gives us fearlessness in yet another form — a sound that's part powder-puff, part buzz saw, part cunning, part shredded innocence. The secret weapon, beyond the band's soft-focus liquid-silver guitars, is singer Elizabeth Elmore. The fact that she isn't afraid to sound pretty is what makes Sarge so chilling, and so invigorating. Elmore faces the metallic beauty of these nine songs head-on, unafraid of showing undiluted rage, but even more important, unafraid of showing vulnerability. "Charcoal" is gentle bravery beyond belief. It's not just that Elmore goes at the themes of these songs — a botched suicide, an act of incest that's hinted at but never exactly spelled out, a terrifying unwed pregnancy — with vocals the texture and consistency of whipped cream. It's that she brushes them with a kind of joyousness, a refusal to be undone that's almost heartbreaking. "As usual we're drunk/you've a circle two girls deep," she sings on the opener, "Smoke," conjuring images of couples who go to a party and stand at opposite ends of the room, flirting with strangers and apparently having a fine old time, even as they tail each other possessively the whole night. But Elmore shifts easily, gracefully, from the bitter jealousy of those lines to the admission that she doesn't want to be had anymore — "And you are so wrong, I can't think what to say/I won't compete with all these boys," she sings softly, leaving it unclear whether these "boys" are romantic competition or merely frat brothers. Her rage has such a shimmery surface that you could almost mistake it for indecision, but it's really just that she's aware of the danger of snap decisions. In song after song, she's examining, weighing, ready to throw away if necessary. Her ruthlessness cuts right through the songs' sunny glow. On "Chicago," the most lacerating — and the most moving — song here, she sings of betrayal as if it were a kind of poison, a substance that can harm an unborn baby as much as smoke or alcohol: "I walked into the bar where you hung out/Twenty-four and I still hadn't figured it out/Eight months pregnant and sick with all these lies/Smeared red lipstick and your hand halfway up her thigh .../And now this child will come into the death of me and you/to wait her turn." Her bitterness rings out like a fairy-tale curse on the child, a realization that, just like her torn-apart parents, she's doomed to find her own kind of heartbreak. If Elmore (who also plays guitar) is the heart of Sarge, then
drummer Russ Horvath (who has since left the band to teach high school) and
bassist Rachel Switzky are the backbone. They give the songs on "Charcoal"
a free-flowing, intuitive structure, and follow Elmore's wonderful,
breathlessly strung-together phrases with ease. They chart the territory
for Sarge's simple yet exceptional sound: It's restrained and enveloping at
the same time. On "Bedroom," the blend of bass and drums support guitar
riffs that are big and rounded and fuzzy, the way street lights look to you
if you're terribly nearsighted, like giant, soft dandelions of light. It's a luscious
sound, but a defiant one, too — a reminder that facing your fears
means addressing your longings first, and that's the harder task by far. — Stephanie Zacharek Stephanie Zacharek is a regular contributor to Salon. |
