JOGA is a different breed of singer-songwriter. While many of his kin attempt to present a clear vision of what they are aiming for, Joga appears to be wilfully sprawling.
He Done Died contains 24 tracks and clocks in at as close to the 80 minute limit of Cds as physically possible. It’s a hell of a lot of information to take in. Then bear in mind that this is his fourth release so far this year. You might get an idea of the degree of quality control that restricts his output.
While the sheer energy of Joga is commendable, it is difficult to absorb as a listening experience. With the immense volume of recorded material that is available you’ve probably realised that Joga is not constrained by any ties with labels. All his work is self recorded and self released, and he appears to take the same slapdash approach to writing as he does to recording.
All the music on He Done Died has been recorded with a rotating line-up of musicians from New York and the feeling of freshness and excitement is found all over the record. It’s just not very well thought out. Princess Christmas, for example, has a guitar solo running practically throughout its duration. It was probably a brilliant idea at 3am when the dope smoke cleared but here it just feels like a joke we haven’t been told the punch-line to.
All the drums sound like they were recorded in a bathroom down the corridor and the electric guitars are squelchy beyond the realms of reasonable taste. While a certain amount of lo-fi recording is refreshing, with the sheer weight of ideas and material on He Done Died, it makes distinguishing a hook or a great lyric tough work.
And then we get to the really strange part. As if to emphasise how unrelenting a creative force Joga is, a lot of the songs end abruptly. And I mean – halfway through choruses – abruptly. Although the album contains a handful of fully formed, well thought out numbers, the majority of songs end when Joga appears to have run out of inspiration. You can be trying to engage with a song and halfway through a bridge be thrown directly into the beginnings of another without warning. Unfortunately, with the limited recording techniques, it is often difficult to differentiate between songs with exactly the same instrumentation and texture.
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The songs themselves do have some great moments. Jugo’s voice bears a passing resemblance to Win Butler and the whole thing seems like a stripped down Arcade Fire demo before the arrangements and structures have been finalised. There are sketches of greatness but nothing that adds up to a fulfilling musical experience.
There are rumours that in a few years Joga will draw from his body of work and release an album of the select cuts from this exceptionally creative period. With the aid of a skilful producer and arranger that could well be worth investigating. There’s certainly enough raw materials on offer to create something great (the unbelievably catchy vocal at the end of Grapplers is enough evidence to support that), but in this form it’s perhaps not rewarding enough to endure repeated listens in an attempt to find snippets of brilliance.
Plus Arcade Fire have a new album out already.
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