For years I’ve taken for granted that this flurry of idolisation, the famous candlelit invitation from Scientology and half the world noisily wanking itself inside out must somehow have been justified by Ms Johansson’s work. It was genuinely a bit difficult not to expect some kind of a masterpiece from my first encounter.
Scarlett Johansson – Anywhere I Lay My Head (Rhino) http://www.scarlettjohansson.org/
Earlier this year an eBay auction appeared, offering one lucky bidder the opportunity to flail out at Scarlett Johansson for a few seconds from behind a meat-wall of red carpet security at one of her film premieres. I watched the price go up and up, picturing lonely bazillionaires wearing out their F5 buttons.
For years I’ve taken for granted that this flurry of idolisation, the famous candlelit invitation from Scientology and half the world noisily wanking itself inside out must somehow have been justified by Ms Johansson’s work. It was genuinely a bit difficult not to expect some kind of a masterpiece from my first encounter. This. Her efforts at playing hurdy-gurdy voiced model cum song siren Nico. But the truth is this may not even be worthy of the markdown catalogue equivalent, Sophie Ellis Bextor (whose music, to be fair, hums along with the knowing artifice of a muzak guitar solo, and therein lies the genius).
The very idea isn’t so terrible, Miss Johansson turns her impeccably groomed hand to the songbook of Tom Waits; angular, saucepan-smackin’ monkey man with enough grit in his gravel to hit several random notes at once, rendering each syllable perfect with another thrust of the stubbly throat. The result? A weird combination of powerful shimmering beauty and vapid emotionless crap. It’s as if Leeds’ ambient heroes Astral Social Club recorded a new album and decided to just invite the first self-righteous moo-ing teenager from Myspace in on vocals (And i do mean moo-ing. She moos).
In fact by the time you read this, Scarlett could well be sat in the eye of a journalistic bukkake party. Still, aside from the range of vocals being so limited that dogs probably can’t even hear them, what we have right here is an absolute treasure, opening with the crushing organs of instrumental Fawn which build to a full wall of ‘mmm’ before heading through eerie soundscapes and smoothly plunging into a skronky sax workout. Then there’s Green Grass‘s gently plucked banjo, plenty of man-with-no-name sonic swirls, the music box twinkle of I Wish I Was In New Orleans and a version of Anywhere I Lay My Head which I swear to god is actually just the Countdown theme turned fembot Livejournal entry. Hats off then to the producer, TV On The Radio’s Dave Sitek, for concocting more than enough aching soft-focus beauty to make up even for Bowie’s unfortunate Robert Wyatt-isms.