A Welcome Spectre: Regina Spektor Haunts Stubb's with Far
Opening with the defiant "Calculation": Where else have blood, sparks, and the unmeasurable nature of doomed love sounded so jaunty? "This fire is burning us up," she sings, and, paradoxically, the song continues to talk cold mechanics, but with heat, pulse, and an unwavering sense of wonder that could only come from a narrator who "made our own computer out of macaroni pieces."
Machines come back menacing in the dystopian "Machine," whose unsettling minor keys and relentless clanking intensifies the robot narrator's freaky foretelling. Really, though, aren't we all looking for someone who "covets [our] defects"? It's hard not to love this one, especially if you want some playful fear in your rhythm.
More cheerfully, "Folding chair" gives us a beach scene, which serves as the backdrop for punk rock romance. This sweet song is one of Far's many moments of powerful simplicity. "I have a perfect body," the narrator declares, "but sometimes I forget."; Most of us forget our own beauty, and "Folding Chair" is an uplifting reminder. She goes on, "I have a perfect body, because my eyelashes catch my sweat." This beauty is inherent. We live, it's ours.
This synthesis, melding the sacred and the everyday, the cosmic with the human, comes back again and again on Far. "Human of the Year," the album's most ambitious single, resonates with the power and grandeur of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah," so vivid are the images, so truthful the emotion, so earthly and yet otherworldly are the sounds, ranging from breathy, uncertain minor notes to a soulful, crystalline climax, back to the frail humanity that makes its vastness possible. How's this for calming one's nerves at a cathedral ceremony: "The icons are whispering to you, they're just old men like on the benches in the park except their balding spots are glistening with gold. The loneliness and uncertainty that begins the song builds to a moment that opens like a Universe-sized flower. This is far-reaching reverence for everything, including the listener.
"Wallet" has a more concrete way of touching on humanity's connection to one another: Listing the contents of a found wallet. "Like a holy relic or a mystery novel," Spektor sings, ending the song on a single a capella note and the word "up." Discarded remnants, crumbled receipts, poetry and connection are everywhere when we seek them.
"Dance Anthem of the 80's," a longtime live favorite, finally comes home to listeners on "Far."; For all its tongue-and-cheek beats and comically simple lyrics, the middle of the song offers a resonant tribal call: "And I am one of your people, but the cars don't stop."; Once again, this is a song about connection, replete with a palpable sense of loneliness, as well as hope.
"Genius Next Door," a cinematic song that retains all the raw, vivid imagery and characters that define Spektor's songwriting, plays like the water in the lake it describes: possibly enchanted, very possibly dangerous. Its mystery comes alive in Spektor's shifting vocal tones and immaculate storytelling. Lines like, "The garbagemen were emptying their dumpsters, atheists were praying full of sarcasm, and the genius next door was sleeping, dreaming that the antidote is orgasm," make every passing acquaintance in this song as real as anyone around us.
"Man of a Thousand Faces" is back to the cosmos, but only Spektor could get us there by way of sugar lumps, torn books, and stained tablecloths. Everything in this song is alive, including said stains, which are "trying to cover for each other or at least blend in with the pattern." This is about a man's struggle, his peace, and the newly-discovered comfort of the moon. Sung live, with nothing between Spektor's voice, her piano, and the sky? These songs will be something else. You won't want to miss what they become. With her talent unleashed on an Autumn night, we'll probably transform too.
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