It’s been obvious to discerning listeners, from the earliest days of The Walker Brothers, that Scott Walker would ultimately make albums with percussionists playing tympani with cascades of marbles, clashing swords together, and, notoriously on his previous album, pounding their fists on sides of meat. I mean, you could hear this prefigured in the sumptuous arrangement of “The Sun Ain’t Gonna Shine Anymore,” couldn’t you?
Not to be mistaken for the union-busting, anti-education Wisconsin governor, Bish Bosch is the product of the singing Scott Walker, born Noel Scott Engel, who has made a career of making music that confounds expectations and defies easy, or perhaps, any description. Those who have heard nothing by Walker other than his hits with the Brothers will undoubtedly be shocked by the stark, experimental, even hostile sound of his contemporary music, and certainly by Bish Bosch. Going directly from “The Sun Ain’t Gonna Shine Anymore” to “SDSS1416+13B (Zercon, A Flagpole Sitter),” the new album’s 20-minute epic, is something like transitioning from The Archies’ “Sugar Sugar” to Stockhausen’s “Kontakte” (a work that has been characterized by the Sonic Arts Network as “a decomposition of sound” and the “equality of musical sound and noise”).
This Scott Walker was a teen idol, a hit maker both with The Walker Brothers, whose phenomenal U.K. popularity briefly rivaled The Beatles’, and as a solo act who was given his own British variety show, also briefly and to the BBC’s apparent regret. He has avoided live performance since the late ‘70s, and recorded only infrequently over the past three decades.
Bish Bosch seems to complete a trilogy, begun with 1995’s Tilt, wherein Walker has honed a distinctive style of songwriting and (with capable assistance) arrangement that incorporates his long-time fascination with European avant-garde artistic sensibilities in expressing his deeply personal, often disturbing perceptions and ruminations. He sees life through a dark, fatalistic filter, informed by the deeds of the world’s very real monsters and the nightmares they inspire. And he does not see things ending well. His music gives unique voice to his bleak worldview.
In as much as Walker has revealed his songwriting, an arduous process that accounts for the years that elapse between his album releases, beginning with “The Electrician” on The Walker Brothers’ Nite Flights album in 1978, he has been gradually paring away verse-chorus pop song structures, traditional melodies, and conventional lyrical narratives. In doing so, he has developed a highly personal style of combining phrases and sounds (and silences) to form an impression on the listener. Walker labors over reducing his lyrics to the words, sounds, and repetitions that convey the feelings, if not the precise meanings he has in mind.
He has said his goal is to bring all the songs’ elements into balance, careful to never “throw anything in that shouldn’t be there.” It is an approach more like abstract poetry than traditional songwriting. And accordingly, personal interpretation is (as Walker has indicated) as essential to the listening experience as is authorial intent.
Walker often deliberately limits the melody lines of his songs to accentuate the droning sense of doom that pervades his contemporary music. With an instrument as great as his rich baritone voice at his disposal, it may seem downright perverse to disdain the sweeping, soaring melodies that made his early solo hits so irresistible. Brian Gascoigne, an arranger on two of Walker’s earlier albums, believes the singer to be seeking “the boundary between chords and discords,” and the harsh clusters of notes used to construct his songs evidence this ongoing quest. Walker’s goal often seems to be to challenge the listener to endure an uninviting sonic landscape long enough to discern any meaning hidden in an inhospitable setting.