It’s hard to recall the artistry and antics (it’s often hard to tell which is which) of Brit rocker Aldous Snow without also thinking of Heath Ledger’s Joker, or perhaps Star Trek’s Q: all three are legendary architects of chaos, able to upend the emotional landscape around them, like a family Monopoly board, on a moment’s notice.
What sets Snow apart is that, unlike the other two, he doesn’t want to watch the world burn; he is simply unable to master his inner pyro. Wherever he goes, sparks fly and human connections go up in flames, all far afield of his intentions and, it often seems, his awareness.
Snow manages to preserve his dubious legacy with admirable mummification in the Infant Sorrow canon, an archive of delicious, disturbing relics that are at once bafflingly anachronistic and brilliantly contemporary – a snapshot, not just of the raucous instability that is Snow himself, but of all those who are blissfully splashing around in the shallow end of his generation. It’s a 15-car pileup on a six-lane interstate – you dare not get too close, but neither can you tear yourself away.
Let’s not kid ourselves, though: as so many leaders do, Snow has surrounded himself with outstanding talent. Infant Sorrow can play. And they all clearly had rich musical childhoods, despite the family dysfunction they may have bobbed around in. “Just Say Yes”, the opening track of Get Him to the Greek, surfaces the sheeny electric guitar of George Harrison in the early Beatles, atop which Snow channels Joey Ramone doing “I Wanna Be Sedated”. There’s serious attention to tone going on here (which the Ramones never managed), and clear homage to a musically simpler time, despite the deep sophistication of Snow’s affectionate paean to substance abuse:
Mother Mary marijuana, Uncle Charlie Top Banana
Meet my cousin crystal meth, Sister smack and all the rest
Woo!
A band that can surge so bountifully with musical talent and yet manage to suppress it so artfully is worthy of our deep scrutiny. “Gang of Lust”, for instance, begs comparison to the Sex Pistols with its slip-n-slide chords and firecracker snare, erasing the poetry of “Just Say Yes” with a chorus presaged for a bathroom stall:
Let’s get fucked! Let’s get fucked!
Let's get fucked up on the town!
Yet despite these manful efforts to adorn the music with such carefully cultivated vacuity, some authentic angst and dimension manages to penetrate the facade. “Bangers, Beans and Mash”, for instance, mines the best of Seventies pop power balladry in a melancholy lamentation that finds Snow pining with undeniable authenticity for a lost love, as a sorrowful piano pings at his loss:
Why has the world gone so still?
The world is so still
I feel my next meal might be my last
Will you come for my bangers
My beans and mash?
Just come for my bangers
My beans and mash!
We are forced to concede that, despite Snow’s wiliest efforts, there’s somebody home here. They may not threaten the estate of Queen, or even Coldplay, but Snow has feelings – he can hurt!!! - and isn’t afraid to slosh them all over the stage when all else fails.
And even this nod to Barry Manilow fails to suppress the hidden brilliance lurking beneath Infant Sorrow’s vacant facade. Along comes “I Am Jesus”, a song that borders on genius, from its luscious, Hollies-driven guitar to Snow’s brilliantly-crafted celebration of his own narcissism – so compelling and yes, catchy, that it can speak for his generation:
I am Jesus
Welcome to the church of me
True believers
Take a walk across the sea
I've come to feed the fish
Heal the world
But first a little dirty kiss
I am Zoroaster
Sitting underneath the tree
I'll be your master
Pour yourself into me
Fill your every wish
Heal the world
But first a little dirty kiss
In a single track, Infant Sorrow has managed to capture the essence of their biggest and best predecessors, harnessing Spinal Tap’s relentless insistence on their right to exist alongside Def Leppard’s endless fascination with their own wieners. It doesn’t exactly capture the intellect of Talking Heads, nor the commentary of Peter Gabriel, but it’s music that demands to be heard.
There are, of course, other callbacks to the greats that Snow and company try valiantly to modernize: “African Child (Trapped in Me)” reaching for Toto; “Riding Daphne”’s nod to Rod Stewart’s masturbatory porn glee; “Little Bird”, which wants to grow up to be on a Gary Puckett single.
Chaos it is, in conception if not execution, reflections of a mind woefully undeveloped yet curiously capable. Imagine what Infant Sorrow might have been, had Snow read a book now and then, or done a little less tainted weed. Chaos it is, but Van Gogh showed us that beauty can reside there, if we can be troubled to seek it out.
Or, to quote Jack Nicholson: I don’t know if it’s art – but I like it.
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