Review Summary: A quiet niche in a storied career.
Johnny Whitney, of The Blood Brothers fame, is hard to misidentify: an eclectic vocalist across a range of genres, recognized for his ridiculous pitch and lyrical stylings not totally unlike those of Cedric Bixler-Zavala, the man does it like no other. His main project, The Blood Brothers, occupied a respected position in the domain of experimental, violent and sporadic hardcore, at least until their final two albums drove them into what were (also generally respected) calmer waters.
Two Whitney side-projects tend to come to mind: Jaguar Love (a pop outfit, all things considered) and, earlier on, Neon Blonde: a two-man electronic dance-punk project with Blood Brothers drummer Mark Gajadhar. Some may recall, even prior still, the short-lived Soiled Doves: something like a post-hardcore band turned Amazonian tribal celebrants.
Interesting listens, the lot of them (I can’t stomach Jaguar Love, personally). And yet one of Whitney’s most remarkable projects has gone all but unnoticed in this history.
Looking at his canon as a whole, The Vogue could best be described as a spiritual ancestor to Soiled Doves. Technically, that’s exactly what it was, given the crossover of several members from the former to the latter. But the differences are palpable, such that the comparison does not hold for long. Here we find Whitney at the helm of a four-piece: howling over weird synths, minimal guitar work, and a vaguely carnival aesthetic. They produced but one record; a quiet niche in a storied career.
Sparse reviews exist elsewhere, most of them lukewarm. I’m not sure why that is. Then again, I’m not sure why, after all these years, I have remained so enamored with a record that one would assume does not even occupy a particularly special place in the heart of its front man. The assumption is defensible: “As Brass and Satin” is clearly not Whitney’s most adventurous product. Comparatively, his contribution here is decidedly minimal - always present, clearly Whitney, but somehow subdued. Here the sincerity, simplicity, and uniqueness of his voice lack the possibly pretentious - or diva-like - qualities many attribute to his mature bodies of work. To the uninitiated, of course, it will all sound equally abrasive.
Perhaps it is the general craftiness of the whole thing that strikes me so much, the locus of which is to be found in the tightly-bound instrumental interplay. Strings like spiders, thick and dreamy synth chords that verge on the 8-bit: like the backing track to a haunted house from a bad videogame, unashamedly so.
It all feels a bit old-school, and it is, yet the record eludes subsumption to a particular era. It is strange and unsettling. In spots it is remarkably sad for reasons indiscernible, sinister in others. Playful, even, if not for the sense that the band is all too serious in their capacities as song-writers and musicians. There is nothing especially spastic here; everything feels controlled. Nobody dominates. Not even Whitney.
Perhaps the record is just difficult to speak to. It is a bit enigmatic, in the end. You have to wonder what they had in mind.
Perhaps nothing at all.
