patrik tanner. soft. review by alan haber. buhdge

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Soft Patrik Tanner Dark One (2004) I was thinking about how people are always saying that their kids are good at certain things because they were "born with it." "It's in his genes," they say. "Her father could paint vistas, he was so good, I'm telling you. She got it from him." "I always knew he was going to play the trombone. He has those big cheeks, after all." I was thinking about how parents say that something is in their kids' genes, like a fantastic singing ability, or the ability to take apart a car and then put it back together again, without a single part missing. Or the ability to write great, catchy songs and be proficient at a slew of instruments so they can make a record and earn the devotion of millions of fans. I'm pretty sure that the old sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll credo is not the collective hook that musicians still hang their hats on, otherwise they wouldn't record in their bedrooms and bathrooms. It's not generally the accepted way to meet men or women, or be otherwise sociable. And, besides, people know that drugs will mess you up, and so will rock 'n' roll, but if the worst thing that happens is you come to look like Keith Richards, then where's the harm? I'm just in awe of people who can do what Patrik Tanner can, which is write great songs with highly infectious choruses and play the hell out of them on more instruments than I can juggle when there aren't a bunch of hard-boiled eggs lying around. All of my hard-boiled eggs cracked, I'm telling you. I took piano lessons as a kid, from my grandfather, who was a piano teacher, but I either didn't take to his style of lessoning or I didn't have the patience to learn my scales (those of you who have suffered through piano lessons will cry along with me). I played by ear. I could hear a song on the radio once and play it back...maybe not exactly as it was originally written and performed, but close enough. Something like it, at least. I also played the drums. I took lessons from an embittered, old-style guy who also favored theory over actual talent, which I thought I had an abundance of. I certainly could bang loudly. And I could keep time. I used to practice, not by doing my lessons, but by playing along with my favorite records. This is where I learned the art of annoying my mother with spectacularly loud music. I got very good at it. Then, it all started to fall apart: one of the toms came loose from its connection to the bass drum, and my mother lost patience with what she called my overly loud klupping. She made me sell the drums to a guy from New York City's Chinatown (we put an ad in the paper), who didn't like the price we'd set until we threw in a pair of Buddy Rich's military drumsticks, which he used in his family's old vaudeville act when he was a kid. If only I'd had the sailor suit he wore...but that's another story entirely. I played the clarinet in public school, but I washed up on shore with zero ability to get more than a squeak out of the instrument, and I used to chew the reeds, which apparently you weren't supposed to do. I played the accordion, a snazzy red pearl number, but it wasn't cool, and before long, I was accordion free, which probably gave the world's music fans cause to celebrate. I still play the piano okay, but I'm no Herbie Hancock. I tried to write songs a long time ago, and I came up with a few good ones, but a few doesn't make a career, and, I figured, better to leave the big jobs to the professionals. Speaking of which, my mother told me, in all seriousness, when I was a kid, that Paul McCartney couldn't possibly have written "Yesterday," because it was common knowledge that he had a ghost writer do the writing for him and, besides, he had long hair. Ha! Longer than me, maybe, but he was no Gregg Allman! Patrik Tanner is Patrik Tanner, which seems to suit him just fine. He knows his way around his instruments, and he's certainly come up with the goods on this beauty of an album, on which he demonstrates many things, such as a mastery of the three minute character study, but most importantly that being able to write songs and perform them is something that you're born with. At least you're born with the ability; how you bring that to life is up to you. Tanner has most certainly brought his ability to life. I mean, I'm the biggest music fan I know, and I don't think I could be the Beatles or the Rolling Stones or even Tiny Tim. Liking something and being able to talk about it articulately is one thing, but doing it is something altogether different. Tanner takes what was his to begin with and creates art. It's pretty amazing, really. Tanner doesn't just play his instruments, he becomes them. The opener, "Enter," shows just how; arranged with care, he melds pop and rock styles for an engaging romp that shows his mastery of guitar, bass and drums. The other instrument, his voice, is just as good. Drenched in echo, he brings the song home with measured confidence. Piano enters the mix on the engaging "Hello Tomorrow!" The song is pure power pop, with Byrdsian electric guitars topping the sound field. A chance meeting with a "real live movie star" in a Hollywood record store leads to the clerk helping her out to her car with bags full of the alternative and funk records of the title, which leads to a consideration of the connection between men and women. Tanner's sensitive vocal helps spin the tale, and vibes provide the cool color. Songwriters that can tell interesting, developed stories in a three-minute song are my heroes; it's hard enough to do that in a review, let alone a song that follows a certain structure. Tanner pulls this off to great effect. For example, take popular musicians. They thrive on fan reaction, but the guy in "To Be Your Fan" may be a little too intrusive for the average fan-hungry music maker. In this song, it's just possible that this fan, however obsessed he is, may be a little too close to his subject for comfort. Set to a classic pop melody, this is a well-realized song done well. The harmonica-colored, mid-tempo, pure pop "Everything Must Go," as catchy as anything here, with its la-la stacked chorus and tempered Boston-style electric guitar solo, is about as good as Soft gets, which is very, very good, indeed . If this album has a middle name, it's Catchy. Making music is in Tanner's genes, no doubt about it, and any of us would be luckier than lucky to have a tenth of his talent. Alan Haber April 17, 2005
alan haber's pure pop buhdgeblog hot buhdge \| pop buhdge \| buhdge remembers television buhdge \| film buhdge \| books buhdge video buhdge \| buhdge fine print \| links about buhdge \| write for buhdge \| contact home (c) 2004 Alan Haber

Soft
Patrik Tanner
Dark One (2004)

patrik tanner's soft I was thinking about how people are always saying that their kids are good at certain things because they were "born with it." "It's in his genes," they say. "Her father could paint vistas, he was so good, I'm telling you. She got it from him." "I always knew he was going to play the trombone. He has those big cheeks, after all." I was thinking about how parents say that something is in their kids' genes, like a fantastic singing ability, or the ability to take apart a car and then put it back together again, without a single part missing. Or the ability to write great, catchy songs and be proficient at a slew of instruments so they can make a record and earn the devotion of millions of fans.

I'm pretty sure that the old sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll credo is not the collective hook that musicians still hang their hats on, otherwise they wouldn't record in their bedrooms and bathrooms. It's not generally the accepted way to meet men or women, or be otherwise sociable. And, besides, people know that drugs will mess you up, and so will rock 'n' roll, but if the worst thing that happens is you come to look like Keith Richards, then where's the harm?

I'm just in awe of people who can do what Patrik Tanner can, which is write great songs with highly infectious choruses and play the hell out of them on more instruments than I can juggle when there aren't a bunch of hard-boiled eggs lying around. All of my hard-boiled eggs cracked, I'm telling you. I took piano lessons as a kid, from my grandfather, who was a piano teacher, but I either didn't take to his style of lessoning or I didn't have the patience to learn my scales (those of you who have suffered through piano lessons will cry along with me). I played by ear. I could hear a song on the radio once and play it back...maybe not exactly as it was originally written and performed, but close enough. Something like it, at least.

I also played the drums. I took lessons from an embittered, old-style guy who also favored theory over actual talent, which I thought I had an abundance of. I certainly could bang loudly. And I could keep time. I used to practice, not by doing my lessons, but by playing along with my favorite records. This is where I learned the art of annoying my mother with spectacularly loud music. I got very good at it. Then, it all started to fall apart: one of the toms came loose from its connection to the bass drum, and my mother lost patience with what she called my overly loud klupping. She made me sell the drums to a guy from New York City's Chinatown (we put an ad in the paper), who didn't like the price we'd set until we threw in a pair of Buddy Rich's military drumsticks, which he used in his family's old vaudeville act when he was a kid. If only I'd had the sailor suit he wore...but that's another story entirely.

I played the clarinet in public school, but I washed up on shore with zero ability to get more than a squeak out of the instrument, and I used to chew the reeds, which apparently you weren't supposed to do. I played the accordion, a snazzy red pearl number, but it wasn't cool, and before long, I was accordion free, which probably gave the world's music fans cause to celebrate. I still play the piano okay, but I'm no Herbie Hancock. I tried to write songs a long time ago, and I came up with a few good ones, but a few doesn't make a career, and, I figured, better to leave the big jobs to the professionals.

Speaking of which, my mother told me, in all seriousness, when I was a kid, that Paul McCartney couldn't possibly have written "Yesterday," because it was common knowledge that he had a ghost writer do the writing for him and, besides, he had long hair. Ha! Longer than me, maybe, but he was no Gregg Allman!

Patrik Tanner is Patrik Tanner, which seems to suit him just fine. He knows his way around his instruments, and he's certainly come up with the goods on this beauty of an album, on which he demonstrates many things, such as a mastery of the three minute character study, but most importantly that being able to write songs and perform them is something that you're born with. At least you're born with the ability; how you bring that to life is up to you. Tanner has most certainly brought his ability to life.

I mean, I'm the biggest music fan I know, and I don't think I could be the Beatles or the Rolling Stones or even Tiny Tim. Liking something and being able to talk about it articulately is one thing, but doing it is something altogether different. Tanner takes what was his to begin with and creates art. It's pretty amazing, really.

Tanner doesn't just play his instruments, he becomes them. The opener, "Enter," shows just how; arranged with care, he melds pop and rock styles for an engaging romp that shows his mastery of guitar, bass and drums. The other instrument, his voice, is just as good. Drenched in echo, he brings the song home with measured confidence.

Piano enters the mix on the engaging "Hello Tomorrow!" The song is pure power pop, with Byrdsian electric guitars topping the sound field. A chance meeting with a "real live movie star" in a Hollywood record store leads to the clerk helping her out to her car with bags full of the alternative and funk records of the title, which leads to a consideration of the connection between men and women. Tanner's sensitive vocal helps spin the tale, and vibes provide the cool color.

Songwriters that can tell interesting, developed stories in a three-minute song are my heroes; it's hard enough to do that in a review, let alone a song that follows a certain structure. Tanner pulls this off to great effect. For example, take popular musicians. They thrive on fan reaction, but the guy in "To Be Your Fan" may be a little too intrusive for the average fan-hungry music maker. In this song, it's just possible that this fan, however obsessed he is, may be a little too close to his subject for comfort. Set to a classic pop melody, this is a well-realized song done well.

The harmonica-colored, mid-tempo, pure pop "Everything Must Go," as catchy as anything here, with its la-la stacked chorus and tempered Boston-style electric guitar solo, is about as good as Soft gets, which is very, very good, indeed . If this album has a middle name, it's Catchy. Making music is in Tanner's genes, no doubt about it, and any of us would be luckier than lucky to have a tenth of his talent.

Alan Haber
April 17, 2005