The Glands
(Capricorn)
The Glands’ debut, Double Thriller, was unusual in two respects: it was a) released over a period of three years and it b) contained a great song about New Jersey. The Glands are Russ Shapiro and maybe a drummer, and the Athens, Georgia multi-instrumentalist released Double Thriller on his own around 1996. It eventually caught the ear of Bar/None Records, perhaps on the strength of the subtle, oscillating hook of “Welcome to New Jersey”, the best of many fine pop creations on the disc. Bar/None re-released the record in 1998, leading to a contract with Capricorn and presto: a new Glands record, hot damn!
Well, not presto, hot damn, exactly, because Shapiro ain't a presto, hot damn type of songwriter. Like, say, Edward Hopper canvases, there is little human combustion or hollering, abstract ideal in his compositions. To whit, there is a song called “Doo Doo Doo Doo” because that’s how the chorus goes. The Glands is so straightforward it doesn’t register at first, but slowly blooms until you realize you’re standing in the middle of a giant African Violet: Dark but not morose, introspective but not reclusive, songs like “Swim” and “Lovetown” are thought-strings with subtle hooks you can’t shake.
Some will wrongly call this music “Beatlesque”. A better comparison is to Robert Wyatt or maybe Game Theory. Shapiro sings in a pinched voice and often double-tracks his vocals, occasionally answering his own thoughts with another set, producing full-grown, wonderfully refreshing scenarios imbued with a Wyatt-like world-wary-ness.
Shapiro's Glands are decidedly un-Wyatt like as craftsmen, however. Not a loose nut or off-pitch string is hit and when, during, “I Can See My House From Here”, Shapiro masterfully swipes the hook from the Four Seasons “December 1963 (Oh What A Night)”, it’s enough to make you think Frankie Valli swiped it from Shapiro.
Shapiro most probably played most everything on The Glands, and therefore vaults to the vanguard of exquisite one-man/bands: Kurt Ralske/Ultra Vivid Scene, Ian Broudie/Lightning Seeds, yes, even up in R. Stevie Moore territory. The only way you’re gonna believe all the pop finery on this album is to, well... buy the damn thing.
Time Out New York, 2000
