Thinking Fellers Union Local 282 - Mother Of All Saints (Album Review)

 

Thinking Fellers Union Local 282 - Mother Of All Saints

(1992)

My Copy: 1992 press by Matador.

Having been picked up by Matador for 1991’s Lovelyville, Mother Of All Saints followed just one year later - dialing the Thinking Feller’s bizarre energy up to eleven for perhaps some of their greatest peaks ever. While it’s true that the first half of this rather lengthy double-album contains the most impressive experiments, the second half still justifies itself through the sheer magnitude of the band’s unique songwriting personality. Wherever you stand on their signature “feller filler” (handfuls of short, often comedic interludes found on Thinking Fellers records), you must admit these tracks embody an affable prankster mentality that many other 90s artists fail to replicate authentically. Probably the only true misstep is the wonky production, though this would be corrected come ‘94. 

A fevered guitar riff crackles before drums and bass quietly mount a unified assault on “Gentleman’s Lament,” with the rhythm section being mixed entirely too quiet to fully appreciate just how genius this arrangement is on first listen. Production aside, the Fellers are experts at refining the niche genre of “demented circus-pop” most prominently pioneered by the Butthole Surfers in ‘85. The music is somehow dripping with both angst and jubilance at the same time: notably more post-punk sharpness permeates “Gentlemen’s Lament” but the vocals themselves are elated and sung in falsetto, even in dissonance. “Catcher” is smooth, focusing on bass and searing noise guitars. The structures are snapped apart and reworked, fast tempos to slow, like a child blissfully rearranging a jigsaw puzzle in whatever fashion they see fit. Elements of blues and country are married to discordant rock, most masterfully displayed in the exceptionally creative “Hornet’s Heart,” which sounds like a twisted bluegrass jig performed by a version of Sonic Youth where the band has a palpable sense of humor. These are genius arrangements and sound experiments hidden in layers of crude jokes - and perhaps it’s better most people don’t get it. 

“Star Trek” blares eastern scales in a chaotic and uneven time signature before the relatively stable indie-pop calling of “Tell Me” brings some of their catchiest vocal melodies, finally blasting off into crazed jamming. The feller filler truly begins with “Heaven For Addled Imbeciles” which is perfect to accompany mental imagery of your bumbling boss or perhaps some fool who cut you off in traffic. “Hive’s” borderline industrial introduction is relieved into smooth, bluesy guitar noodling. Delving now into psychedelic more, “Hummingbird In A Cube Of Ice” trudges through a murky sample into clanging, off-kilter rhythms until eerie guitar progressions take over. The vocals are not quite alien enough to be totally lost, but are strange enough to make this daring music for a trip. 

“None Too Fancy” is the least interesting of the interludes but “Wide Forehead” saves the pacing with melodic bass and echoing guitar squeals. “Infection” is a lo-fi hymn to absolute nonsense that stretches a bit too long. “Pleasure Circle” to “Shuddering Big Butter” are filler-type tracks though they at least have the humor and creativity to be fun (aside from maybe “Tight Little Thing” and “Shuddering Big Butter” itself). Unfurling into illogical meshes of noise, “1” Tall” precedes the most melodically coherent track on this half of the record in “Raymond H.” which bobs and weaves over middle-eastern riffs at a mid tempo. “Cistern” has it all, from slow, haunting ballad, to in-your-face static hissing, it combines most sonic themes found on the record into a cohesive near-end package. The final two tracks are lo-fi demos, with “El Cerrito” being the more imaginative of the two.

It’s unfortunate that this album sort of loses its steam around the three-quarter mark, because the best material here is some of the best and most underrated alternative rock/pop that exists. Yes, I understand that the lo-fi production is instrumental in maintaining a lot of the album’s idiosyncratic personality but had the record been given the sheen of its followup, it would allow for the incredible dynamics to come through more clearly. Even with these downsides, the Fellers are the best when it comes to early 90s indie tricksters: just the right level of humor crossed with the right level of technicality. Like misunderstood carnival acts, the Thinking Fellers take the class-clown act to new heights with their flare for mixing normally incompatible genres. Mother Of All Saints is the best record to weed out disingenuous music nerds, and if you’re dismissing this band, it’s because you’re their punchline.