It’s only relatively recently that the words “artist” and “commercial” could be placed together without sounding ridiculous. In the past, you either worked in the arts, serving the whims of a patron or were content to draw colorful pictures or write poems for your relatives.
The fact that there might be a career in this whole art business makes a lot of today’s work really shallow and predictable, and the people who do it are untrustworthy. The majority of the great, imaginative artists can’t be tied to a schedule, can’t write as a chore, and don’t want to earn respect by virtue of how much they charge for their work.
The songs of Worth Lambert float about wildly from one idea to another and sound as natural as the river water flowing through a mountain. “One or Zero” is more of a journal than a thematic project. Song ideas jump from one place to another, like mountain goats taking great leaps across a precipice. But it only makes sense that it would work this way. What great artist has the time to think about the same thing every day?
The album’s opener, “Billionaires Floating in Space,” is a strong opener and the closest that the record has to a protest song. Thematically it recalls Gil Scott Herron’s “Whitey on the Moon.” But whereas in 1970, it was the U.S. and U.S.S.R. government stretching their muscles by means of space exploration, today, it is tech billionaires doing it to impress one another.
Worth Lambert’s greatest strength is the innocence captured in just about any song. Like a child asking to discuss friends or enemies, ultimately, the songs see the best in everyone. Seeing the best is not the same as closing one’s eyes to the ridiculousness of the world. “Philly Surfer” is a tune that rides a mighty groove and tells the tale of beach seekers stranded in rougher climates. “My Favorite Cousin” is a lo-fi rock n’ roll number about unfriendly relatives. And the gentle acoustic-driven “Earth has a Fever” sounds like a letter sent to aliens explaining the recent pandemic on our Big Blue Rock.
It’s a good-natured record of this “One or Zero” release. Its lo-fi sound works in its favor. For the most part, it sounds like the work of an experienced musician jamming calmly in his kitchen and painstakingly putting songs together.
The fact that there’s variation also helps make this enjoyable. “Jello Song” prances around like like a Harry Nilsson number, and “Doesn’t Care About You” is a polite, but direct warning to anyone anxious to surrender their life to the desires of someone else.
Where are you left at the end of “One or Zero”? Pleasantly and surprisingly refreshed. The songs zoom by, and, for the most part, the record manages to showcase Lambert’s work in a way that feels like visiting the musician on a Saturday morning over mint tea. The world’s a strange place, but we still have nice folks to write songs about it.
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