Annie Clark says the job of an artist is to “shock and comfort”. For years, he did far more of the former than the latter. Her first four records – a flawless run since 2007 Marry me until 2014 Saint Vincent— plays on a common trope of the horror genre, the idea that behind every pristine facade lies a world of ugliness, violence, and bad satisfaction. Horror franchises, of course, tend to get stale pretty quickly: Once you learn the general workings and motivations of a killer, they're not all that scary. The aesthetic of Clark's music has remained relatively consistent, but as she's added more elements—synths, latex, wigs, weird album concepts that don't necessarily align with the increasingly personal music contained within—she's begun to feel less powerful.
All Born ScreamingClark's self-produced sixth album, goes for a hard reset on the work of St. Vincent, not returning to his harsh, alien textures of, say, 2011 Strange mercy, but moving the selector from “shock” to “console”. Musically, it feels like the first album of St. Vincent since then Marry me presented without a unifying aesthetic: at various points Clarke incorporates Bond thematic melodrama, Steely Dan-esque prog, bouncy art pop and leechy industrial rock, making for arguably her loosest record, a breather after years of fitting her songs into increasingly tight confines.
It's a freedom that carries over into the emotional content of the album. Clark's records often display warmth and vulnerability in flashes, but All Born Screaming it feels thoroughly romantic and highlights bits of beauty within Clark's usual vocabulary of chaotic, violent imagery. On the giddy dream pop ballad “The Power's Out,” she sings about New York as a kind of hell created by its inhabitants. far from a horror story or an indictment, it sounds like a love song.
St. Vincent occasionally let her mask of irony fall on earlier albums – “Candy Darling” on dad's house“Champagne Year” on Strange mercy“Happy Birthday, Johnny” to Massage— but this feels like an album full of those songs. Even the hard bits are born of empathy. The shaky, unsteady “Reckless” is about coming out after someone you love dies. “Flea” might be a bit crude, casting love and desire as a form of insult, but there's something romantic about the idea, too. Over a beat reminiscent of Nine Inch Nails' over-the-top chug, Clark sings lyrics that straddle the line between devotional and creepy: “Drip in diamonds/Drip in cream/You'll be mine for eternity.”
