Aqueduct I Sold Gold

I really don't know where we'd be here in America without the Internet. It seems as if it came along at just the right time in history. At the exact moment public discourse crossed over into absurdity and finally collapsed into faith-based corporatism, here comes an outlet for every kook, crackpot and genius marginalized by the overriding need to sell, well, everything. Where I live in Clinton, NY, we are now in the midst of the Ward Churchill scandal that has rocked Hamilton College just up the road. If you haven't heard, this is the guy that made controversial comments about 9/11 victims and ignited a firestorm when he was invited to speak at the college on the "Limits of Dissent". I guess we found out what those limits are. But thanks to the Internet, you can read what this guy has to say, from damning but insightful commentary on the brutality of pure capitalism, to asshole remarks about victims of terrorism.

What does all this have to do with Aqueduct? The digital age and its lovechild, the Internet, have made it possible for voices to be heard that would never have a chance in the same Media that brings you the Super Bowl. Now, for about a thousand bucks, guys can get a digital 8-track recorder, a drum machine and some secondhand instruments and record an actual album. Most of what's burned on all those CDs is surely laughable garbage performed by talentless hacks enthralled by their own greatness despite a complete lack of interest from the rest of mankind. But every now and then one of these dudes will lay down some decent tracks and set Indieworld abuzz. I don't know whether I Sold Gold was recorded in David Terry's bedroom or at Studio 2 in Abbey Road, but I do know that it will be an inspiration to the fine people at homerecording.com, plugging and posting away. Because someone has finally done it. Someone has taken the most meagre of inputs and, armed with some irresistible songs, has delivered a product worthy of sale. That may not sound like much, but bedroom maestros everywhere will recognize it as a major achievement.

Granted, this is no masterpiece, but it's quite good and very often it is even compelling. The leaping piano figures that drive the opener The Suggestion Box and Heart Design, the droopy melody of Five Star Day, and the unspeakable drone in The Unspeakable, are just a few examples. These moments reach out and grab you in a way that belies their humble origins. Growing up with GNR is a perfect pop sentiment and will trigger smiles of recognition from the generation that cut their teeth "hearing Axl Rose, on the radio, singing Sweet Child O' Mine." The sound, the sensibility, even the voice, recall Brian Eno's early solo records (Here Come the Warm Jets through Another Green World). Mr. Eno is starting to look like one of the most influential and certainly the most prescient of all the artists to spring from the Me decade.

There are moments that don't work, including probably the worst drum machine this reviewer has ever heard on Frantic (Roman Polaski Version), and some examples of the unfortunately burgeoning genre of "Playstation Rock", but the inspired material makes these lapses forgivable. I Sold Gold is proof that good music, like free speech, will find an outlet whenever forces threaten to stifle it. It's up to us to search it out.