The Prayer Chain Albums (3)
What The Critics Say
Just as they took an axe to the sunny pop of Whirlpool with Shawl, the Prayer Chain here seek distance from their second album by offering their most expertly conceived record. Where Shawl wanted to be an important record, Mercury actually is one, a haunting study in numbness that appropriates planetary imagery as a potent metaphor for human isolation. Eric Campuzano's lyrics, so labored and awkward in the past, are perfectly suited to Mercury's languid, chilly atmosphere. As they did on Shawl, the Prayer Chain slam the door on bandwagoneers with the opening track. "Humb" is a rolling, blown-speaker psalm that buries Tim Taber's voice beneath layers of echo and shoves Campuzano's bass so far forward in the mix it bludgeons all other instruments. Though the band quickly redirects with the scorching "Waterdogs," they have accomplished their purpose of mercilessly unseating the listener within the album's first 30 seconds. The rest of Mercury is characterized by willfully creeping tempos, shadowy, snaking guitar lines, and Tim Taber's drained, emotionless vocals. The record feels like a horror film. There is an intangible menace to songs like "Grylliade" and "Creole" that deepens when Taber sings stark prophecies like, "All the old ghosts will let you know just how far gone you are." As with all masterworks, Mercury was rejected by horrified record executives who could not wrap their heads around what it was the Prayer Chain were trying to do. Its release was delayed for months as the band was forced to remix, remaster, and re-record until the label felt satisfied. Inside reports hold that the initial version of Mercury was even more unnerving than the final one, bordering at times on being thoroughly unlistenable. Pity it will never see the light of day. ~ J. Edward Keyes, All Music Guide
What The Critics Say
That the Prayer Chain was edgy enough to make an obstinate break from the radio-friendly modern rock of Whirlpool is made clear the instant Tim Taber sneers "Shine is dead" on Shawl's opening gambit. A deliberate reference to Whirlpool's sunniest number, the lyric also serves as the album's unifying theme: the death of all that glows with hope. Shawl is a bleak, stubborn record, an unrelenting assault of churning Alice in Chains-style grunge that scraps melody in favor of unfettered emotional angst. The tradeoff isn't always worth it -- Eric Campuzano's painfully poetic lyrics are too often self-important and overwrought, and Taber's blustery, iron-man vocal delivery frequently smacks of needless histrionics. As a statement of purpose, the record is brilliantly conceived -- its jagged chords and complicated song structures easily alienate the casual listener, ensuring that those who stick with the Prayer Chain are as passionate about the band's music as the band is. And despite its air of pretentiousness, there is much to admire about Shawl. The shattering epic "Never Enough" moves from redemption to sin and back again with the sweep and scope of a DeMille movie, and the galloping "Fifty-Eight" is as fine a rock number as the band has ever produced. The flangey "Like I Was" and rambunctious punk of "Grin" provide the record much-needed forward momentum, propelled by Andy Prickett's fiery guitar work. Still, Shawl feels more like a press conference than a rock record, and as such its lifespan is incredibly limited. Though they broke with the pop clichés that hampered Whirlpool, they quickly embrace a whole new set of clichés -- those of the grunge age -- and, consequently, Shawl over time sounds neither as brave nor as adventurous as it did upon its release. ~ J. Edward Keyes, All Music Guide
'Neverland Sessions'
Release Date 1/1/1991
Tracks 15
Label Chatterbox
See Album Tracklist and Review
