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St. Vincent’s 2007 debut, Marry Me, was a mesmerizing seduction and rebuff. Upon first listen, it was impossible not to be enchanted by Annie Clark’s suavely sweet vocals and seemingly innocent, almost childlike appearance. Yet while the songs drew you in with their pop swoon, the Dallas native would quickly spike any sentimentality with a wicked wit and tormented passion that cut like a knife, emphasized by her searing guitar that fiercely mauled the live shows. Actor operates in the much the same way, though with John Congleton’s production and Clark having clearly sharpened her focus, the songs erupt with more force. Perhaps because Marry Me already revealed the neuroses lurking under the veiled beauty, Actor is a bit less shocking, but the turmoil swirling beneath the narratives that Clark unfolds in stunning swells and hums nonetheless packs an unnerving punch. As the album’s title implies, Actor seems to knowingly exploit the tension between the gorgeous sound that Clark weaves even at her most intense, and the brutal realities continually scarring just below the surface.
“The Strangers” opens the album with a declaration of darker intent. The soft chant giving way to the hypnotizing throb of a beat is upended by Clark’s repeating refrain of “paint the black hole blacker.” The relationship in the song is doomed from the outset, secrets poorly hidden and antagonism sprouting inevitably to the surface with the eruption of scuzzed out fury in the ragged, damning riffs of the bridge. “You show up with a black eye, looking to finish a fight,” Clark croons misleadingly sweet, and the rest is left to imagination as the tune falls back into its daydream ease.
“Save Me From What I Want” and “The Neighbors” set similar scenes, the former’s “wife in watercolors” and the latter’s sisterly appeal for understanding both exploiting a disillusion behind suburban life. “The Neighbors” is particularly unsettling in its younger angst, the girl seeming to argue with herself in a schizophrenic dual of innocent yearning and experienced ache: “How can Monday be alright, then on Tuesday lose my mind, tomorrow’s some kind of stranger who I’m not supposed to see?” All this culminates in the storm “Actor Out of Work,” driving and furious as the illusions are shredded in condemning recognition with the admonishment of “You’re a supplement, you’re a salve, you’re a bandage, pull it off.” These four songs make for some of the year’s best 13 minutes of music; unfortunately the rest of the album doesn’t prove as consistent.
The percussion in the beginning of the album is propelling, but its intensity is offset by Clark’s gentle vocals, as with the skittering beat of “Save Me From What I Want.” Likewise, the strings and woodwinds that flourish are an effective counter to setting up Clark’s blazing guitar. “Black Rainbow,” however, inverts that style to give the arrangements increased emphasis, the final two minutes soaring into an orchestral flurry as Clark becomes more brooding. The heavy guitar and steadily climaxing drums all crescendo to nothing, and then fall back into the smooth sound of “Laughing with a Mouth of Blood.” The songs are too easy, and the beat to forceful, to allow for the kind of subtle cuts with which Clark best makes her songs bleed. “Marrow,” meanwhile, unloads an almost dance-rock pulse and moves in shattered bursts that are interesting for a few listens, but too quixotic to sustain itself.
“The Bed” briefly realigns the album, a truly twisted song opening with Clark drawing out the lines “We’re sleeping underneath the bed, to scare the monsters out with our dear daddy’s Smith & Wesson, we’ve got to teach them all a lesson.” The music is as understated as Clark’s delivery, and the interlude of slowly rolling Timpani drums and quivering violin carry so much drama in their hesitance that the imagination roils. As with Clark’s best songs, it’s not entirely clear what has happened in the scene, just a moment of harrowing recognition frozen and left lingering within the awakening.
The piano crawl of “The Party” and gorgeously trilling “Just the Same but Brand New” lean to close the album on odd note that seems to find a tentative ecstasy of possibility amid a defiant loneliness. “The Party” sorts through the late night debris with a surrealistic movement around the room, while “Just the Same but Brand New” uncovers a strength in the struggle of love’s fallout. Both are beautiful numbers, and the latter would have served as a better closer than the final, comparatively brief “The Sequel,” which offers an orchestral return with Clark flirting an almost jazzy breathiness.
Actor is an excellent second album, showing St. Vincent remaining true to form while expanding on it in both arrangements and power. Perhaps most impressive about Clark, however, is that she resists the temptation that lingers throughout to break her subtle, entrancing voice into the cathartic wail that many female singers feel the need to unload. Instead, she maintains her beautifully understated delivery and lets her guitarwork spark the passionate uproar when it’s needed.
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