The Left Turn Albums
ISSUE #154
Each musician carves a path up industry’s mountain. The air gets thinner with every step. Those lucky enough to hit the treeline then face a choice: climb on and try to replicate the success that brought them here, or take a left turn and try to write the world something new.
This issue is dedicated to those Left Turn Albums, the follow ups to big hits that try out new sounds. They’re bloated. They’re weird. They’re often incoherent. Many stretch past twenty or thirty songs. They’re derided at first, then later admired. Each is brave in its own indulgent way.
Prime examples are Fleetwood Mac’s Tusk—their fractured, million-dollar follow up to Rumors—and the 36-song brick that was Sandinista!, The Clash’s triple album which followed London Calling. The Age of Adz saw Sufjan picking up synths, mirroring Paul in the 80s with McCartney II. Bon Iver went glitch mode in 2016. There’s the lo-fi Smiley Smile, the Funkadelica of "Awaken, My Love!" and the party rock emo of Danger Days. Last week saw St. Vincent entering the Hall of Left Turns.
Their pattern is evidence of freedom's pull, our inherent drive to keep changing the scenery. They're also probably a symptom of coke. Still, our hearts run on the fuel of surprise, the struck match of novelty lighting our way. Reach the top of the mountain and you only face descent, but take a turn and you might catch whiff of a new breeze.
About a month before I started cramming The Odyssey, I was halfway through a pocket-sized Macmillan Collector’s Edition of The Maltese Falcon. It was my first time reading it. I’ve actually never even seen it. But! I did study Hammett in a paperback class in college—he was the genesis of hard-boiled crime fiction, which was called noir when adapted to screen. His prose could be sharp as Hemingway’s, at his best.