I’ve learned a couple of things from the press release for Miles Benjamin Anthony Robinson’s (MBAR) eponymous debut (Say Hey Records, 2008). Besides having a mouthful of a name (the first thing most writers like to mention about the 23-year old singer), MBAR has had a troubled young adulthood, marked by substance use woes and maybe even homelessness. I’ve learned that despite promising connections such as Grizzly Bear and TV on the Radio, MBAR has had fitful musical beginnings, unable to get his act together enough to release a record until now. In short, I’ve learned that he has made his fair share of mistakes and that what I’m listening to might be an anomalous moment of artistic clarity.
I mention all of this in part because it’s taboo to do so. Yeah, I know that press releases are supposed to be little secrets shared between writers paid to spin and those paid to unspin, cheat sheets journalists are not supposed to admit to using yet may freely cull from if they wish. Press releases are meant to set the story straight, but also to just plain set the story–to give us clues as to how to interpret whatever it is we’re writing about, from the latest tech gadget to an activist campaign to rock ‘n’ roll. Which leads me to the other reason I mention this MBAR press release: I’m not sure what I’m supposed to think about it, what prism it’s supposed to open onto MBAR’s music. Should it inspire pity, curiosity, hope? And which of those postures should I share with you, dear reader?
I get the message, though, when I listen to the album, drenched as it is in boozy phrasing and choking on smoke-filled lyrics, that the artist is wizened and wise and seeming much older than his appearance or birth certificate would suggest. MBAR sounds like he’s smiling through pain, singing songs that are filled with tragic beauty and a sloppy sort of grace. He’s a folk singer unafraid of the decadence of organs or the noise of guitars, a slow poet who sometimes mumbles. This makes for an album that is unpredictable even after several listens and one on which the gorgeousness feels almost accidental. MBAR’s voice can rise like a spirit or wrestle with the devil, and it pokes through the muffles and layers of sound that separate it from your ears. Sometimes this slackness feels pre-made (take “The Ongoing Debate Re: Present Vs. Future” as a case it point); after an album of it, it could start to feel listless. It doesn’t, however–with tracks like the snarled “Buriedfed,” the woozy “Written Over” or the anthemic “Woodfriend,” the collection strongly rejects being characterized as indulgent, haphazard, or bored with itself.
Is the frame around MBAR meant to instigate legends, like the stories about Bob Dylan’s difficulty or Janis Joplin’s antics? Perhaps it’s an attempt at full disclosure which, in this 24/7, YouTube-y, lack-of-privacy world is a natural posture, if a defensive one. Maybe it’s meant to explain why someone with so much life ahead of him sings so many songs about being dead, drunk, lost, and troubled. Or maybe none of these are right, or all of them are. Whatever the case, MBAR is a tangle of tales and secrets, where the things it broadcasts only make you wonder more about what is not being shared.