Local CD review: "50 Acres of Pain," by Christopher Scum
By the time
"50 Acres of Pain," the new acoustic album by
Christopher Scum, cues up the last track, it feels like you've survived a long night of drunken debauchery and all of the emotional soul-searching, physical face-punching and crawling-on-the-floor, sobbing-uncontrollably sloppiness that comes along with it.
"Been Gone" is about the most tender track you'll find on "50 Acres of Pain," and it's a beautiful song -- but you have to pay the toll to get there through 13 tracks of darkness and brutality that are both wondrous and horrible to behold. Scum, for those in the dark, is the East Tennessee equivalent of G.G. Allin, a guy who's known for punching himself in the face with brass knuckles while growling and howling over down-and-dirty Southern punk. His new album, however, may surprise a lot of people.
It's still brutal, and if there's any insight to be gleaned from its journey through Scum's subconscious, it's this -- the man lives with pain on a daily basis. Whether it's his struggle to stay sober, his lifelong battle with depression, or memories of a childhood so rough he tried to hang himself when he was 7 ... the dude has lived with pain for so long that he uses it. It's both a muse and an antagonist, a counterpoint to the guy he wants to be and the cinderblocks around his feet, dragging him back down into the gutter he's pulled himself out of so many times before.
It's not a disc for everyone -- his voice has a nasal twang that some will find grating, and his subject matter doesn't pull any punches or respect any boundaries ("Drinkin' Beer With Jesus," anyone?). He's not so much anti-religion or anti-authority as he is anti-life, and many of the songs talk about wanting to die or trying to die but not having the courage to follow through or feeling dead. He goes from sounding weary and defeated to bitter and defiant, sometimes within the span of a single song.
That's the beauty of this record -- it's so off-balance, so uncentered, that there's no way you can listen to it and think Scum is trying to pull off some sort of schtick or create some kind of outlandish and fictional character. It's just who he is and what he thinks, and when you throw in the musical assistance and production mastery of local guitar legend
Carl Snow -- as well as backing vocals from Speed Shifter's
Andy Pirkle and Appalchian gothic singer-songwriter
Leslie Woods -- you have a record that defies expectations and surprises you with both its craftsmanship and its journey.
Because the last song, the aforementioned "Been Gone," is the clincher. It's the emergence from a fog of liquor, just as the sun's coming up, pulling out of a near-blackout that never set in full-blown. It's stumbling up the stairs with a bloody nose and a black eye, missing your wallet and shoelaces, favorite jeans ripped and stained by God knows what.
It's seeing your woman in the doorway, shaking her head but not saying a word, reaching out to offer a comforting embrace just as the sun climbs over the treeline and the air conditioning kicks on, blowing a blast of cool air that smells like home from within. It's stumbing into the house, collapsing in that familiar and comfortable bed and passing out, thinking just before everything goes dim that maybe, just maybe, the next day will be a better one.
TIM'S TAKE: '50 Acres of Pain'
"Sometimes I need a woman, right now I'll settle for a drink." The chorus from track five ("Sometimes I Need a Woman") of Christopher Scum's new solo acoustic project, "50 Acres of Pain," sums up the overall sentiment of the record. Not quite halfway into the album, Scum lets loose the secret that informs the album as a whole: He could use a lot of things, but he's ultimately going to settle.
The next song in the track listing drives the point home. "This is not the first time that I've let you down" is Scum's unrepentant admission that he just can't keep it together. The song isn't an apology, it's an explanation. In some ways it's a manifesto for despair.
This album has the flair, sensibility and style of a gospel record. Of course, the ironic twist is that the "gospel" of these songs is turned on its head. It could be a cry for help, but it's mostly a sob of surrender. Even the rollicking blaspheme of "Drinkin' Beer with Jesus" has an undertone of self-loathing that betrays the swaggering rhythm and lyrics. "Jesus is my kind of guy," Scum sings, and I think he really wishes that were true.
"Hate Me Kill You" is absolutely beautiful from a musical perspective. The lyrics undercut the music with Scum's bitterly ironic cynicism. "I hate myself, I wanna kill you," he sings. I wonder if this song is written to a lover or friend, or if the case shifts with the comma and Scum is actually talking to himself. These kind of questions pervade the record, and one listen won't be enough to get any answers.
The whole recording feels about a 16th of a beat off kilter, and I imagine that is a creative choice. Listening to the record leaves you feeling out of balance. There's no doubt that I'm making a trip through Christopher Scum's mind as I listen to these songs.
This record proves that an acoustic record can leave you reeling just as much as any full on rock and roll onslaught.
Tim Hankins is assistant managing editor of online content at The Daily Times, as well as a musician and guitar teacher. Contact him at timothy.hankins@thedailytimes.com. .. --> -->