Cut me in quadrants
Leave me in the corner
Oh now it's passing
Oh now I'm dancing
There's a resounding otherness to Antony Hegarty. Suspended between maleness and femininity, his voice cuts with the diamond edge of Edith Piaf or Maria Callas but blessed with a warm, manly glimmer from time to time. It's a sound that requires a response. For some, the quirks and affectations will grate, but for others - say major fans like Lou Reed, Leonard Cohen and Rufus Wainwright - it is a thing of singular beauty. While not previously on the Antony and The Johnsons critical bandwagon, I must confess that The Crying Light (released January 19 on Secretly Canadian) is a work of such delicate, stirring beauty that it's impossible to refuse the high arching artistry, raw talent and undiminished emotional wallop of Antony and his marvelously tuned in collaborators. The clear vision and beveled, hushed execution of it on this album harks back early Van Morrison, Cohen in his heyday and Nina Simone's blistering '60s recordings.
Hidden inside the most readily disturbing album cover I've seen in eons are bejeweled feelings delivered with chamber music precision. The prevailing temperament is a quiet storm - volatile yet misty, turbulent without much howl. In a world of walls and ever-increasing self-absorption it's extraordinarily rare for anyone so sensitive to reveal themselves so unguardedly. Nothing stands between us and Antony's bare skin revelations, and one comes away with his scent on them. It's a level of intimacy not everyone is going to welcome, and it's a brave artist to demand “consumers" strike this kind of bargain with something as codified as a “record." But, for good or bad, there's no denying the individuality of this song cycle or its creators, and if you're willing to throw in without hesitation there's something really profound happening on The Crying Light.
I'm going way out on a limb here but this album feels like part of the mourning process after eight years of George W. Bush and his cronies. America has been on such a Rambo-ed up testosterone binge that the soft things of this world had gone into hiding - When a bully crowds the playground there's no play for some of us. The cry inside Antony's luminescence is born of a low, lingering pain but becomes a noise to set the delicate and different free. While a very real fear that we're walking around in humanity's final days floats in the background, there's also an enduring resilience that refuses to be snuffed out despite the crumbling terra firma and blackened skies.
As in American politics, there's likely to be a yawning void between those that love this and those that absolutely hate it. Regardless of which side of the canyon one stands on, the artist in the middle inspiring these reactions is doing just what he should - proffering his unique gifts in settings that bolster the curious power inside him. For my own part, I'm vaguely dumbstruck by The Crying Light. There is something prayerful that puts me in touch with God and makes me look somewhat kinder on my fellow humans. It's not something I can precisely force into language but the feeling is haunting and inspirational. I am grateful for this gift, sent running into Eliot's arms, feeling some deep resonance with his epic poem inside this gorgeously muted glow
