The pandemic affects people in different ways, causing some to turn inward and relive their personal history; others to get politically engaged or just plain angry. And sometimes it prompts musicians to create a lot of music, using the non-gigging time to branch out and push boundaries. All three of those tendencies are evident on this simultaneously-released trio of albums by Mike Dillon—each one considerably different, but the three add up to an impressive statement.
Shoot the Moon is the most mainstream of the three. Fully produced with a handful of guests, it bears out Dillon’s most expansive musical ideas. As the ad-hoc band name suggests, punk, funk and psychedelia are all in the mix—but so is some twisted blues, a bit of prog here, a dab of Beefheart there. Each track shuffles the deck a different way: sometimes the sound is dense and chaotic, as on the foreboding “Camus Sound Asleep,” and sometimes more playful. Despite the forbidding title, “Apocalyptic Daydreams” is a boppy fusion instrumental. “Psilosybin Donut,” apparently about eating a hacked beignet, appropriately begins as a straight-ahead rocker and swerves into the mystic. It’s anyone’s guess why the prettiest tune in the batch includes the line “No one remembers my throbbing member,” but why the hell not?
Dillon does much of the instrumental work on the other two albums, which put his vibraphone to the fore. On the pandemic concept album 1918, it is woven throughout with synth and percussion textures; the resulting surreal mood is perfect for the subject matter. “Mad Hatter” is about someone getting drawn into the Q’Anon rabbit hole, and the soundscape—muted wah-wah guitars, siren synths, dub-heavy bass and lots of echo—is as crazed as the topic. “Quarantine Booty Call” brings in the only appropriate kind of humor—namely, very dark humor—and “Word to the Virus” (“Don’t you hug my mom!”) is perhaps the first example of vibraphone death metal. Balancing all this intensity is a handful of instrumentals which are lighter in mood and in the case of the synth/tabla excursion “Pinocchio,” even rather lovely.
Suitcase Man is the biggest step outside Dillon’s usual wheelhouse; he’s never written songs this personal or made a record this stripped-down. There’s little here besides vibes and voice, and he allows himself to sound shaky and vulnerable on “Matthew” and “Turkish Rose,” both about deaths of people close to him. Equally surprising is the quirky whimsy of the childhood memory “Tiny Pink Asses” and the downright odd “Roly Poly.” The title track at least is a more straight-ahead pop song about the musician’s life. This one risks being a hardcore fans-only album, but Dillion’s melodic sense—also more upfront than usual—gives everyone else something to hang onto.
Dillon’s singing voice still takes some getting used to—okay, a lot of getting used to, especially over the course of three albums. There are occasional guest harmonies—notably from Givers’ Tiff Lamson on the third album—but for the most part he goes it alone vocally. It’s worth it though, because these albums push his eccentricity and his creativity about as far as both will go—which in Dillon’s case, is far indeed.
