By Isa Jones
By Mary Willson
By Brian Turk
By Drew AIles
By Taylor Boylston
By Bree Davies
By Emerald O'Brien
"Baby, we bombed the hospital by mistake/Too bad, war is hell," Bern sings in the song. "We bombed the embassy, we thought it was something else/We might get to World War Three by Thanksgiving Day/But as long as the turkey is golden brown, it's all gonna be okay."
"I wrote that more than two years ago," Bern says, with a throaty pinch to his speaking voice that only hints at the nasal tinge of his sung vocals. "The song was really about being on the road and going back and forth between Los Angeles and New York. There was so much going on in the world at that time, it just felt a little overwhelming. But now, I guess, it resonates more with everyone.
"I think that, like a lot of people, everything that's happened since September 11 has really made me connect with myself and reassess what my job is," he adds. "I've realized that it is to try to bring people together through music, even if the message is unclear or difficult or it seems wildly inappropriate. I have to process through the songs -- that's really what I'm always doing when I'm writing lyrics."
Since his self-titled CD debuted for Sony's now-defunct Work label in 1997, whatever fame Bern has garnered has largely been through word-of-mouth awareness of those lyrics. On each of his recordings -- the independently released EP Dog Boy Van, later reissued by Work; 1997's Dan Bern; the Ani DiFranco-produced Fifty Eggs, released in 1999; and Smartie Mine, a double CD issued later the same year -- Bern has crafted tunes that are musically straightforward and simple, as good folk songs should be. At the center of all that strum, strum, strumming, however, was a lyricist who seemed hell-bent on using the tradition to broadcast a decidedly off-kilter sensibility. For Bern, the acoustic guitar provides a framework for songs about love and relationships gone wrong and right, about the vapidity of pop culture and the desperation of hero worship. Along with more serious meditations on emotions and current events, Bern's past subjects have included everyone from a fantastically endowed Tiger Woods to a blue-haired Marilyn Monroe to his own friends and family members, all of whom undergo some sort of comic transformation once Bern is done with them. On Dan Bern, he recast the late Mrs. Miller as the wife of Henry rather than Arthur ("Marilyn"), while on "Jerusalem" he invited Christians, Jews and Muslims of the world to take comfort in the new knowledge that a multi-purpose savior had come for them at last: "I think it's time now to reveal myself/...Yes, I think you heard me right/I am the Messiah."
But with New American Language, released on New York indie Messenger Records, Bern has emerged as the leader of a strange and heavily instrumented band rather than a compulsively clever solo artist armed with a guitar and a couple dozen scrawled-in notebooks. Fleshed out by a fixed four-piece that includes guitar and banjo player Eben Grace, Paul Kuhn on "Cellocaster" and violin, drummer Colin Mahoney and Wil Masiak (who mans ten instruments, including glockenspiel, clarinet and something called an accordorgan), New American Language is a full and flexible recording, a bona fide studio effort. Compared with the minimalism of Bern's early efforts, it is nearly symphonic, augmented by the playing of guest artists who contribute layers of vocals and plenty of odd little sounds. The epic "Thanksgiving Day Parade," for example, plods along to the hulking squawks of a tuba and a thumping upright bass, while "Rice," a dreamy vision-quest type of narrative, is an exotic romp, complete with didgeridoo, worldly percussion and choruses of mantric chanting. At thirteen tracks, New American Language feels like the record for which Bern has spent the last five years warming up.
"I wanted more from this record; I wanted to put more into it, because I felt like the songs deserved that," he says. "And with so many people involved, it was sort of like I took myself as an individual out of the equation and just let it happen, however it was going to. And I had a lot of help on this one. It wasn't all just me, me, me. It was less about what was right for me and more about what was right for the songs and how to best serve them."
And how did Bern know when he had served them well?
"You get to a point of utter exhaustion when there's nothing else you can possibly think of to add or to do," he says. "I think this was, in a lot of ways, the most fulfilling musical experience I've ever had. But it was also really, really difficult. You go away from something and then come back to it so many times. You feel like, 'C'mon, let's just get this over with.' There were times, as late as this summer, that I thought I wasn't going to release this -- that it just wasn't working at all. But you get to a point where, even if it turns out in a way that is not necessarily what your intentions are, it just feels like it's arrived."