Sceptic Purchase: A Review of Antony and the Johnsons’ I am a Bird Now

Reviewing any album should never begin with a description of how the record was purchased. That said, allow me to begin by telling a story. I can hardly recall a moment when I had been as sceptical about buying a CD, as I was when I bought the Antony and the Johnsons album I am a Bird Now. The price was feasible, only about nine pounds. The album had received recommendations from various magazines. More convincingly, artists whom I enjoy, Lou Reed and Rufus Wainwright both register themselves as fans, to the extent that Reed recently included Antony in his touring troupe. Despite all these signs, as I waited in the queue to pay for the record, I hesitated, and left to browse the store for something else about three times.

Why was I so full of doubts about buying this album? The reasons, in hindsight, seem twofold. Before walking to the line for the first time, I had acknowledged that all inclinations I had about the quality of this record were recommendations from other people. I realised it was possible these people could be wrong. I decided to give my own ears a try to pass judgement. So, provided the chance by the store’s “thirty seconds per song”-listening policy, I browsed through a few tracks. I was disappointed. The sound clips that lasted about as long as a blink of an eye did not sound worth the hype. Relating to this, I was sceptical because the album had received such hype. In a day and age where Crazy Frog dominates the charts for a few weeks, Franz Ferdinand are hailed as a great band across the board and the musical event of the year 2005 seems to be the release of Coldplay’s X&Y, hype seemed to assume an alienating effect to me as a consumer. Thirdly, as a minor cause for concern, Boy George apparently was a guest on the album.

Regardless of my scepticism, I bought the album. I spent my way back home wondering if I had committed a mistake. Would this album be a point of embarrassment in my shelf? I satisfied myself with a few excuses. At least, if I hated this album, it would work for the benefit of my ego. I could entertain any willing audience with a tale of how magazines, Mr. Reed and Mr. Wainwright were all mistaken. I would point out flaws of the album, and my elitism would receive a luxurious meal during the anecdote.

Saturated by this possibility, I got back and put the album on. I listened to it through headphones, as I usually do when I first go through a new purchase. Before pressing play, I was still garnishing my smug smile. I was already thinking of analogies I could produce about the album’s unworthiness. My scepticism had changed to plain, rude mockery, at a point when I had only heard thirty seconds of the first few tracks.

Then I actually began listening. Twelve seconds into ‘Hope There’s Someone’, I was overcome. Antony opens by singing “Hope there’s someone who will take care of me when I die”. His voice sounds part singer in a fine French piano lounge, part otherworldly, fully frail and broken-hearted. The song is powerful, it is beautiful, and it is surprising. Antony begins by telling us he hopes for some care during his death, and then when the only instrument of the song, the piano, suddenly launches into a wall of sound, the ghostly melodic howls are enough to convince me that somewhere in the middle of this song, Antony actually has died, and I am listening to his spirit calling. The opening of the album, on this first listen, leaves me shaken. Shaken by surprise and by the quality of the track.

by Juha Virtanen

Copyright September 2005