- Over the years Pikelet, the nom (-nom-nom) de plume that Evelyn Ida Morris worked under forever, has become an enduring fixture of experimental pop in Oz. An antipodean co-traveller to the likes of Jenny Hval or Julia Holter, like those artists they’re capable of putting complex subject matter to work in experimental songcraft, all the while weaving a catchy tune into sweet harmony.
On the last Pikelet record, 2016’s Tronc, Morris mixed it up a bit and -to put it simplistically- pushed the message way out ahead of the music. Outside of that music Morris was and is heavily involved in political advocacy, most notably by founding the LISTEN organisation, created to give voice to female and LGBTQI artists. Suddenly the experimentalism -seven minute industrial grinds, no-fi production and Morris having a go at rapping- were the vehicle for a political broadside, targeting a range of feminist and body-politics issues. The medium became part of the message: I remember Morris explicitly saying that they wanted to problematise the idea that femininity in music must lead to sounds that are sad but sweet.
That being the case, the new record -notably released under their own name and self-titled- is even more surprising. It feels like the armoured plates and rusty spikes that covered Tronc have fallen away to reveal something ...not less fierce or dangerous, but rather, lithe, supple, luminous and further it’s electric, just lightning fast in how it grabs the listener and doesn't let go. To put your name on a thing: that can’t help but give it the feeling of a definitive statement, a magnum opus, a deeply personal gesture. With everything that Morris has said in the past it really made me wonder, because this record is both sharp and sweet.
Whatever the case may be, I wonder how many alternative and pop musicians hide away a history of classical music, days and days spent slaving at the clarinet, violin or as in Morris’ case, the piano. Whatever secrets other rockers may have, this reveal is astonishing. Australia is not short of talented fingers in the neoclassical field, a-la Sophie Hutchings or Luke Howard, but until I heard this record I had no idea Evelyn Morris -lover of loops and accordions- sat in the top echelons of the field.
The overture, with its honky-tonk and dark ambient undertones is beautiful, but it’s still playing with you. The bright, apolline chords of recent single The Body Appears, too, are like a dawn, heralding what’s to come. If it is kind of a gateway to the rest of the record, the words (it’s one of not very many which actually feature lyrics) are an inscription on it, explaining everything else.
“When the body appears only as a list of ailments / A list of impediments / When the body appears, but is unseen / Where do I live then?” Morris has returned to body politics, reiterating the same challenging questions as before: “How can my home be so foreign / How can my home be so lonesome? / How can I call it my home?” The answer? “Just move your left arm / Move your right one too / Don’t have it mean anything to anybody but you.” It’s a justification for an album’s worth of thrashing the keys.
The Body Appears, unlike the other songs here, was written quite recently and those lyrics are a primer for decoding the meaning of the record. Everything else was actually penned four years back, before Tronc and during a time of great emotional turmoil for Morris, struggling to cope with being outside binary gender, neither female or male. It’s easy to see why you would hold this material back, written primarily in an attempt to cope with inner trauma.
From here on the music rolls and heaves like the sea in a storm, beginning with the appropriately titled instrumental Wreck It, snapping, growling, thundering and yelling. It’s as compelling a three minutes as I expect to hear this year. As is the wallowing emotion of Limited Resources. The vocal harmonies are a rare treat, screeching “Go on! Take what you want!” over and again. For all that the sounds here rage manically, that mania does have its upside, with an inescapable feeling of elation pervading the material, much like the unstoppable enthusiasm of that madman Keith Jarrett.
The elation is nipped and tucked when it gets worked into some Regina Spektor-esque pop figures, like the whimsical but elegant Forecast, or the slightly more unhinged stop driving. Moments like these are the best opportunities to observe Morris’ dry, subversive humour too. Listen to a song like what to give, juxtaposing surging romantic emotion with the lyrics “What to give / A person who has everything!” This being Evelyn Morris of course, think a bit and you can find the sneaking, political intent under the surface: “What to give when everyone has everything!!” Think about it.
It’s a cheap assessment, but I wish my inner turmoil produced music like this. Evelyn Ida Morris’ agonies have drawn out of them an eloquence and clarity that I’ve only touched on here - what about all the subtle, clever orchestration and finely tuned production? Despite that I’m still a bit flummoxed by Evelyn Ida Morris. I understand the circumstances that produced it, but I can’t comprehend how so much personal uncertainty creates such a commanding record. Could it be as simple and trite as saying that everything was right from the beginning, Morris only had to accept it? To allow a little sweetness to sneak in amidst life's sharp kicks? I guess that’s how it sounds to me.
- Chris Cobcroft.