Scott Walker “Scott 3”

Though I may have heard The Walker Bothers as a lad, I had no idea who Scott Walker was until I saw a documentary about him, a decade or so ago—which I’d like to see again—which led to me reading about him and listening to some of his music online. I noticed some things, such as he was from Ohio, had pop career, then started expanding his music in more interesting directions. He reminded me somewhat of Mark Eitzel, I guess, so that was exciting. Some of his later music is really experimental—not the easiest to digest on an empty stomach, but impressive in a formal way. I have never run across any of his albums in bargain bins (which is almost exclusively my way of obtaining vinyl), so I bought a new reissue of this one, called “Scott 3”—originally from 1969—and it’s a great record—it’s got a depth to it that’s immediately evident, that puts it among my favorites. It might take me years to even fully take it in, as it’s already changed a bit through a dozen listenings. I haven’t even begun to approach it lyric-wise—though some are immediately undeniable: “You’re like a winter night, your thoughts are frozen, you kiss your lovers in the snow. Too many icy tears glisten for someone. You watch the leaves as they shiver your loneliness, your eyes are lanterns growing dim…”

From the first song, “It’s Raining Today,” I’m fully caught up in it… (“The train window girl, that wonderful day we met, she smiles through the smoke, from my cigarette…”) It’s making me think about what I like about Richard Harris—though without the camp appeal (at least for me) of R.H., but with all the heaviness and weirdness. (I’m a huge Richard Harris fan, which has a lot to do with the songs by Jimmy Webb, so it’s the highest compliment.) The first ten songs are written by Scott Walker (credited to his original name, Scott Engel), followed by three Jacques Brel songs. I do like Jacques Brel a lot, and apparently so did Scott Walker—he’s a big influence—and the songs here are great—but the Scott Walker songs are even better. At any rate, I’m listening to it now like it’s a new love in my life. That’s really the best thing I can say about any music. Occasionally I’ll like a record so much I’ll come back to it and write a second review, and this might be one of those.

The album cover is a good one, too, a giant blown-up photo of an eye (which I’m a sucker for). Whose eye? Seeing how Scott Walker is reflected in the mirror of the pupil, I’d guess it’s a subject of one of the songs. (Wild guess: Big Louise.) The back cover is mostly taken up by a heavy cloud of words—credited to Keith Altham. Is it a poem? No, it’s liner notes, essentially—or closer to a poetic review of this record—much better than this one (you’re reading now). It takes the approach of appreciating the entire album as a literary work. The cover folds out as well, and inside are roughly eleven oval, sepia tone photos—one of Scott Walker, and the rest are illustrations for each Scott Walker song—along with an excerpted line or two—like they’re short stories from the 19th century.

In many ways, the record feels much older than it is, as if it’s, to some degree, timeless. But also, everything about it seems like it could be an absolutely contemporary album—not one that came out in 1969. Also, because he kept doing music into his seventies, you picture Scott Walker as someone who aged into this brilliance and eccentricity. But looking at the dates, you realize that he was only in his mid-twenties when he made this album. Which is crazy—because this is a record that really sounds like the work of an older artist. Maybe he was always old—maybe he’s one of those people—you certainly hear that on the last long, “If You Go Away,” (a Jacques Brel song with Rod McKuen lyrics), which he takes over and makes us believe. On the other hand, maybe you have to be that young and audacious to be that emotionally out there.

A big part of why it’s all so good is that the orchestral arrangements are beautiful and intense, but also kind of weird—you might even say “off” at some points—I don’t mean accidentally—but bordering on experimental—not what you might expect. The music keeps you a little bit unbalanced, and one after another of the slow, melancholy orchestral numbers really keep the haunted mood. And there’s a lot of variety, too, of course, especially due to the theatrical Brel songs that take us to another world entirely. And then, “30 Century Man” is a concise and catchy folk pop number that manages to be completely baffling (and great) in a minute and a half. Amazingly, it all fits together. I guess I’m torn between wanting to isolate individual songs or just take the record as a whole, because the album works so well… isolating songs feels like it cheapens them. But it’s also impossible not to… even individual lines (“She’s a haunted house and her windows are broken.”) The song, “Big Louise,” for instance, is so beautiful, I just feel the need to point it out to the spectral companion in my room. (“Listen to this one!” I say.) “She stands all alone, you can hear her hum softly, from her fire escape in the sky. She fills the bags ’neath her eyes with the moonbeams and cries ’cause the world’s passed her by. Didn’t time sound sweet yesterday? In a world filled with friends, you lose your way.” I’d cry, myself, but I’m, you know, all outta tears.

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