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You’d think
at this point that I’m going to have done with all the introductories
and launch into Thief, but I’m not. I’m going to tell you
one thing, and I’m going to say it a lot of times and in a couple of
different ways so you get my meaning. This album is a masterpiece. This
album is a masterpiece. .
I have some quarrels with Bejar’s preference for very lazy album sleeves—Streethawk,
which is a very elegant album, has a sleeve that looks like it was put together
in Corel Draw over lunch break—but the simplicity or thriftiness of
Thief’s sleeve works. The title in small print at the center
of the front cover, the song titles lined up on either side, some shirtless
guy who may be dead underneath the title and between the song-titles. Yes.
The Italian futurist-lookin’ graphic on the single-sheet fold-out back
cover. The super-bizarre Weird War Stories drawing that’s the
only thing inside. Yes. Yes. The lyrics. The music. The Bowie damage. No,
scratch that: the heavy, heavy Bowie damage. The title track, which is the
last song on the album, reserving its fierce, muffled, distorted burst of
electric guitar until its final ten seconds. The song titles: “To the
Heart of the Sun on the Back of the Vulture, I’ll Go.” “City
of Daughters.” “Death on the Festival Circuit.” Some of the
best lyrics available anywhere. The use of religious language to describe
reactions to pop songs. A guy singing in a slightly breathy voice over a
nylon-strung guitar and some piano: “Yes, throw yourselves away, don’t
save yourselves,” the sound of release in his voice drenched with mood
and emotion without being overworked. (Not that Bejar is not willing to
overwork it when that’s what he thinks a song needs.) Thief
swings like a child playing in a hammock. Every song on it is terrific.
Don’t be like me and wait until you can feel like you discovered it
yourself. Run out and get it and then nag your friends to do the same. They
will all thank you before they’re halfway through the record.
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