Much like ex-Pavement frontman Stephen Malkmus, former Dismemberment Plan
lead singer Travis Morrison faces the daunting task of detaching
himself from the large shadow his juggernaut band cast over the indie
rock community. Free from the democratic constraints the Plan
imposed upon him, Morrison presents a far more eclectic side of himself
than seen on any record prior, and the results were heavily
foreshadowed via mp3s on his website during Travistan's production phase. Nevertheless, Plan
loyalists are almost guaranteed to scrutinize this album from start to
finish, deconstructing it on a microscopic level with a magnifying
glass to find any possible reason to complain why Morrison and company
called it a day far too soon.
The immediate thing that comes through on
Travistan that was missing on some of the Plan records is that Morrison sounds like he's having fun experimenting with new sounds and textures (check the Joe Jackson-esque
piano playing on "The Word Cop") and not brooding so often. Combined
with the added relief of starting clean on a new label with a new
backing band (including Death Cab for Cutie's Jason McGuerin) and the freedom to produce without the pressures of making it better than a Dismemberment
record, it's instantaneously notable. "Get Me Off This Coin," a folksy
series of political interludes sprinkled throughout (which could get
tiresome to a few people, but that's what fast-forward buttons were
made for), and "Born in '72," which re-creates a live setting with
quirky little jabs (and a melodic homage to fellow D.C. residents Fugazi
during the breakdown), let the audience know that Morrison is well
aware of the pressures and expectations of a solo record. One audience
member even slyly asks "Think they'll play 'The City'?," a reference to
one of the Plan's well-loved songs.
But it's not without fault to say these songs could have been on the next Plan
album. The signature video game noises and analog synths are still
anchors of the song arrangements, and the inclusion of more
electronic-based production only further reinforces the idea that
Morrison is just as versatile behind a mixing board and sampler as he
is behind a guitar and a vocal mike. Morrison's lyrics have always been
a strong element of the Plan's
popularity, and here he has never been more creative in his song
subjects. A dark and philosophical muse on the mortality of life
("People Die") is followed by a wish for caged zoo animals to rebel
against their captors in rather violent ways ("Song for the Orca").
There are also two beautiful moments of quiet introspection in "Any
Open Door" and "Angry Angel," and the closest thing to a Ben Gibbard
homage with the final, untitled track. Make no bones about it, Morrison
is challenging expectations and listeners by stretching his musical
boundaries and defying people to come along for the ride through close
listening. And those who loved the Plan
for the original angle they brought to a near soulless genre will be
pleasantly surprised that Morrison is holding his own and staying true
to himself. (AMG)
