Omni Presents
It’s a safe bet that Sonny Smith has spent more time debating the merits of Albert Camus over Jean Paul Sartre than the classic rock’n’roll Beatles/Stones conundrum. He’s said as much of his non-musical writing aspirations in many an interview, never shying away from building up linear narratives and three-dimensional characters over the course of his records, however painstaking, and only occasionally at the expense of song structure and musicianship. Not that the state of virtuosity has ever held any allure for him – Smith lives in the realm of indie and folk rock, occasionally striking out to the outlying lands of garage and lo-fi psychedelia as in last year’s concept-ish album Talent Night at the Ashram, a work propped up by fragmented dialogue and cinematic direction like the cardboard background set pieces of one of Smith’s stage dramas.
This time around, Smith has given up on trying to split the difference between his music and his prose. Sees All Knows All is fusion of Smith’s playwriting and indie rock talents, a six-track long spoken word tale of, according to Empty Cellar Records, “LOVE, SEX, DRUGS, SPACESHIPS, ROMANCE, HALLUCINATIONS, BITTER TEARS and CHAMPAGNE.”
But. of course, it’s not really about any of those things. Like, at all.
Okay, well maybe it is a little bit. There are definitely some hallucinogenic drugs, and maybe even a bit of romance (“And I’m feeling love, I guess,”). There’s definitely a beautiful vintage piano in excellent condition somewhere in the mix. But the no-frills indie rock serves as merely an artistic backdrop to the important part of the record: Smith’s self-loathing and contention with his own position as a destitute creative-type in a world where everybody is much better at pretending they have it all figured out than he. One rich (monetarily and descriptively) character’s fixation on fictional meta-Sonny’s lack of a “sellable skill, usable craft or a practical talent” spearhead’s the record’s conflict and story arc. “You thought you could make it on your art and you didn’t,” sneers a disembodied voice rattling around in Smith’s head to Smith’s own avatar – a terribly sobering realization. “Broke Artist,” along with the entire first half of Sees All, is a profoundly sad glimpse into the self-image of a man who still harbors in his heart all the insecurities and doubts that young artists hope will eventually fade from their own. It succeeds in that it’s both supremely comforting and crushingly depressing, a musing on the direct correlation of society’s perception of ‘artists’ (as we like to call ourselves) to the age of the individual in question: when we’re young, creative endeavors seem romantic brave and when we’re old the same pursuits are foolish and selfish.
Opener “The Ring” hazily drifts in, a regal string quartet juxtaposed with the populist buzz of guitar feedback and the ring of a vocal mic “check.” When he turns to his backing band and asks listeners to “Let the strings settle down here,” Sonny reveals himself as limited in his abilities as a character but boundless in his perception as a narrator. He sees all and knows all, including current happening in faraway places and the past experiences of passersby on the street. The tale starts out fairly believable – enough to make you question the degree of the record’s basis in fact. There’s a lady named Sal, some semi-detailed friends and some real life locations, but slowly unravels into Bukowski-esque anecdotes of guys holding flowers while walking to a bar every day at six, and people metamorphosing into animals at an ayahuasca-fueled therapy session.
By the time the wavering synths and grooving bass of the opener tracks resurface unchanged like intermission music in “Unbearable Confession,” the horns and brass have grown wild and unruly from waiting so long in the wings, impatiently squealing and crying at the end of each stanza. So it is with Smith’s poetic affectations, where he both shines and falls short. He’s got quotable one-liners for the ages, to rival Hemingway and a whole lineage of dealers in terse prose (“Thirty minutes was all it took to disclose a man’s entire life,”). Smith’s blue powder, the supernatural macguffin substance du jour, rings of Kurt Vonnegut’s tasteful and inviting science fiction leanings. That said, he starts dispensing his cleverness a bit too rapidly as events begin to snowball, depicting himself as a friendless, isolated misanthrope while searching for someone to listen to his description of a carcinogen-induced ailment. Certain spots are messy and meander, but sometimes such is the price of a worthwhile story.
Even if you (like me) weren’t head over heels for the fragmented screenplay that was Talent Night at the Ashram, Sees All Knows All earns a strong recommendation for its resonant yet plainly-spoken philosophical underpinnings and its modernist storytelling. Smith has thoughts that are worth hearing and an entire Bay Area alternative scene full of capable musicians at his beck and call. Turns out, there’s little else you need for a project like this.
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