As part of a loose coterie of musicians in CCM-related
contexts who have valued art over image (specifically
the bland, youth group approved image demanded by CCM),
Krist and Knott have helped create a market base
within CCM for artists unafraid to explore, well,
“real life.” They have helped eke out a niche —
however small — within CCM where musical exploration
has somewhat of a voice.
Of course, both Krist and Knott have suffered
ongoing frustration with CCM and have continued to
seek other venues for their art.
Even so, both Krist and Knott have managed to
create significant bodies of work. Their songs appeal
to a narrow yet loyal group of listeners who, though
they often find themselves solidly within the church,
crave music that transcends the church proper.
The real importance of the works of Krist and Knott
lies not in their musical innovation, not even in
their raw musical talent, though they’re serious
musicians. The importance of their work lies, rather,
in their liminality, their ability to move between the
“sacred” and “secular” without a rigid sense of
dichotomy. In a Christian subculture that tends toward
artistic stasis, musicians like Krist and Knott are
the resistance.
On Krist
Jan Krist’s latest release, titled “Love Big, Us
Small” (on Silent Planet Records, a small label that
rescued Krist’s ouvre from a nasty contract debacle
with her old CCM label), provides a panorama of her
musical development while glimpsing her current
direction via four new tracks.
“Tarzan Tells All,” one of the new tracks scattered
throughout the album, is characteristic of Krist’s
best work. It excels in subtle touches: shimmering
feedback in the opening measures whistles in the
background as tempo gradually quickens to the chorus.
Krist’s voice remains expertly modulated throughout.
The song, which refutes black-and-white,
reductionist ways of thinking, sings in a passionate
(yet measured) voice; its stylistic simplicity foils
the ignorance that expresses itself in oversimplified
“Tarzan Talk” — “Me right, you wrong” (or to quote
DeGarmo & Key, “God good, Devil bad”).
In fact, none of the tracks of “Love Big, Us Small”
are unlikable — and perhaps therein lies a primary
weakness. Krist’s work displays a remarkable
homogeneity. Even though “Love Big, Us Small” spans an
eight-year career (1992’s “Decapitated Society,”
1993’s “Wing and a Prayer” and 1996’s “Curious,” plus
the four new tracks), it’s hard to tell an “early”
song from a “late” song.
Perhaps that speaks for the strength of Krist’s
songwriting; perhaps it points to a certain measure of
genre conformity (Krist stands squarely in the
neo-folk, singer/songwriter niche). But even the best
qualities of “Tarzan Tells All” become less
interesting when repeated song after song.
Still, the merit of Krist’s craft shouldn’t be
downplayed. That it’s good enough to elicit the
production efforts of the likes of Armand John Petri (Goo
Goo Dolls, Sixpence None the Richer) speaks something
— and not that Krist runs a big production budget,
either.
On Knott
It’s hard to characterize an artist of Mike Knott’s
prolificacy and longevity. Since 1981, when his band
Lifesavers (later Lifesavers Underground or LSU)
released “Us Kids,” Knott has been involved in about
27 albums, including four solo projects.
Knott’s work conjures, at various spots in its
stylistic progression, such influences as the Beatles,
Joy Division and the Ramones.
Late ’80s albums like “Shaded Pain” (Lifesavers
Underground) are goth-tinged, Knott’s vocals
consciously affected and “dark.” Early ’90s albums
(like 1994’s solo “Rocket and a Bomb”) evince a
dramatic shift to a looser, more ironic approach,
Knott’s vocals noticeably stripped, unvarnished.
His recent work, like the “Aunt Bettys” album
(released on mainstream label Elektra records) and
“Strip Cycle” (’95) could be called “acoustic punk.”
“Dogfish Jones” (’98), complete with Hammond organ
stylings by the late (great) Gene Eugene, sounds
something like a tripped-out remix of all Knott’s
previous output.
As it shifted stylistically from goth-tinged and
sober to ironic, half-sober, Knott’s work also
relocated itself thematically. “Shaded Pain”’s
imagistic lyrics (as in “Jordan River”: “The Jordan
River is chilly and cold/ I’ll meet you, brother, on
the other side”) gave way to gritty, street-level
narratives (as in “Rocket and a Bomb”: “All I ever
wanted was a good job/ Some bus fare, a rocket and a
bomb”).
There’s much about Knott’s “mature” work that’s
distinctive — trademark, even. His throaty, slightly
schloshed whine (which possesses surprising powers of
articulation); his seedy stories — “Aunt Bettys” is
full of them, like “Suicide Sex Doll” and “Lush” (the
names say it all); his refusal to deny his frail
humanness (he’s the only CCM-related artist I’ve heard
who sings about hangovers — cf. “Double” from “Rocket
and a Bomb”) — all these make Knott one of the most
compelling, creative voices ever to sojourn through
CCM.
At the same time, though, there’s a substantial
(though not equal) portion of monochromatic,
unthinking “rock ’n roll” claptrap permeating much of
Knott’s recent work (especially “Aunt Bettys”). What
he gained in moving toward stylistic maturity — quirky
storytelling, an ironic slant on being down ’n out —
he seems to have lost in careful songcraft.
Knott’s output has always been prolific, but it
seems his most recent works have been churned out with
a near apathetic nonchalance. In songs like “Rock
Stars on H” (from “Strip Cycle” and “Ford Supersonic,”
an album of “Aunt Bettys” left-overs), banged-out
guitar riffs, wheezing vocals and monotonous drumming
make for less-eventful listening. Granted, “Rock Stars
on H” is a parody of strung-out rockers — but I have
to wonder to what extent Knott is parodying, well, his
own music
