For a man who spent the better part of his music career trying to shun the label of "novelty act," Ben Folds sure seems to have come to terms with the prospect. A few years ago, this shamelessness took the form of a tongue-in-cheek rendition of Dr. Dre's "Bitches Ain't Shit," a humorous but quickly stale b-side from the well-worn Dynamite Hack playbook, and what should have stayed a silly footnote became an exhausted show staple. Over a month ago, Folds toyed with fans by releasing a fake leak of his latest full-length, Way to Normal, featuring re-worked versions of actual album cuts that received a "Gotcha guyz!" explanatory spread in Rolling Stone.
While it's difficult to criticize an artist in the current music industry landscape for soliciting attention by any means necessary, the line of gimmickry should be drawn at the music itself. Thus, despite brimming with some of Folds' most thrilling arrangements in nearly a decade, Way to Normal's descent into cringe-worthy contrivances, eye-rolling pop culture references and misplaced self-awareness renders the album a disappointingly disjointed affair.
2004's maddeningly mediocre Songs for Silverman was an all-out lobotomy, neutered of any prior semblance of Folds' swagger in favor of an adult-oriented schlockfest that'd fit comfortably in tomorrow's "Delilah" show. If Silverman was his mid-life contentment, Way to Normal is Folds' mid-life crisis. Recorded after what appears to have been a bitter divorce from his wife of nine years, the song titles speak for themselves: "You Don't Know Me," "Brainwascht" and "The Bitch Went Nuts." Folds infuses an energy and direct approach in his songs unheard of since his output with Ben Folds Five, but he manages to frequently overcompensate in the process. As accomplished a musician as Folds is, it's difficult to picture how such a shallow and half-baked lyrical approach can fit into such exceptionally-arranged pop tunes.
Exhibit A is "Effington," a reflection from his tour bus using a cheeky lyrical motif already driven to the ground by any teen who's ever commuted on I-55: "Effington could be a wonderful f'ing place / I can see it from the highway / And I'm wondering / Are they f'ing in their yards? / f'ing in their cars? / f'ing in the trailers and the back roads and the parking lots of Effington?" Not only does he glaringly omit a nod to the city of Effingham, but Folds wastes a frenzied stop-start composition with a scorched-earth policy to a one-dimensional joke.
Elsewhere, "The Bitch Went Nuts" leaves tact at the door, featuring Folds as a mouthpiece for the self-absorbed-male perspective of a split. Destined to be blaring from your floor mate's angry breakup playlist right next to Ben Folds Five's "Song for the Dumped," "Nuts" intersperses references to Photoshop with the eloquence of "holy fucking shit" and "she called me cunt." Wherein "Dumped" deftly and satirically captured the uninhibited smattering of post-breakup emotions, "Nuts" is stupidly crass for the sake of being stupidly crass, which makes it all the more unfortunate when you find yourself singing along to its irresistible melody. "Errant Dog" follows a similar path, seeming to exist for the sole snicker of calling a dog "bitch."
Folds' self-awareness always held certain appeal as an aw-shucks twentysomething; now that he's an aging rock star, though, such a method leads to a vantage point that becomes damn near impossible to relate to. In the goofy opening track "Hiroshima," Folds outlines a real-life stage dive that took him to a Japanese hospital, amusingly positing himself as the unlikely and hopelessly clumsy arena-filler. Its redeemable concept is dashed within seconds by "The Frown Song," a desperate stab at being a populist that critiques diva celebrities coming from someone who, on the dead-end musing "Free Coffee," discusses how he never got free food or traffic warnings when he was "poor." They're both examples of Folds' recent propensity to write clunky social commentary to illustrate his uncomfortable relationship with fame, and they both end up backfiring.
Way to Normal inevitably shines where Folds errs on the side of simplicity and earnestness. The Regina Spektor collaboration "You Don't Know Me" is impossibly catchy, placing a disarmingly honest story over a bouncy, effortless piano chug. The lament "Cologne" features a risky chorus ("4, 3, 2, 1, I'm letting you go") that still manages to sound heartbreaking with its sweeping strings and harmonies. Finale "Kylie from Connecticut" proves Folds' innate skill for character sketches, a format markedly absent from his recent productions.
Since admirably breaking up Ben Folds Five at its creative peak, Folds hasn't found a decent idea he couldn't run into the ground. It's a frustrating development coming from a capable musician who put out some of the most consistently clever pop songs of the '90s. Folds now comes off as your desperate-to-look-hip youngest uncle, caught between his once-charming immaturity and his desire to proselytize. Perhaps he'd be better off donating his compositional prowess to better lyricists and his words to Bloodhound Gang or something. But I doubt his ego would allow it.
Now that you've read about it, listen to it. Visit www.benfolds.com or www.myspace.com/benfolds.
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