Despite the title, Jens Kuross’ Crooked Songs is awash with irrepressibly straightforward sentiments that should charm even the most cynical person.
Music holds many forms, and for Jens Kuross, it’s a vehicle of inner expression, dotted with piano chimes. Curdled instrumentation decorates Crooked Songs, a record bristling with anguished vocals and pulverised piano patterns. Such is the frenzy that Kuross momentarily takes a break from singing during “No One’s Hiding from the Sun” to let out a ghostly whisper. This type of soulful searching is like a throwback to Roger Waters during the Amused to Death era, preferring fierceness over form.
In terms of sonics, Crooked Songs feels like a lo-fi record: many of the tunes, like “Stereotype”, open with an inhaled breath before banging through the song. Many of the songs purportedly flowed based on instinct, as the musician bashed through a melody only to piece together a lyric to flesh out the work. The organ-heavy “Beggar’s Nation” seems the most undernourished, coming across as an uneasy alternative to OK Computer closer “The Tourist”.
However, given the right mindset, Crooked Songs makes for a pleasant, quasi-Autumnal listening experience, as cascading lyrics etch their way into the proceedings. The wearisome “Hymn of Defeat” works in that context, suggesting the changes from October to Winter are in sync with hubristic, human agitation.
“For what I cried,” he sings, summoning an emotion from his gut as much as he does from his heart, lit by sparse backing. Kuross is credited with writing and arranging the tunes, and on first listen, it seems like he performs every part himself. The absence of ostentation adds an intimacy to the record, a project that could have been completed in someone’s living room. What the tapes prove is that the artist is more interested in the journey than the product, seeking another layer to bring out his inner truth. It could well be a diary, an audio encapsulation of work.
Jens Kuross never wears out his welcome on every track, preferring a more economical approach to songwriting. Indeed, there are only eight numbers that pad out the tracklisting. What’s more, the themes carry each one naturally into the corresponding composition. When one track closes, another must start, and there are no pauses throughout Crooked Songs. There is only ambience, texture, and completion. Dissenters may tire of the dourness, but it’s refreshing to hear someone lay out their soul across tape. In this improvised manner, words emerge over a Wurlitzer, a soulful singer baring his soul on a nearby microphone for his amusement.
Which brings us to “Inside Joke”, replete with a delivery inflected with tinges of Joaquin Phoenix’s influence. A Batman fan could discern from Kuross some of the flavourings of the eponymous hero in the 2019 movie Joker, blurring the lines between reality and fiction even further. Drowsily, the keyboard bangs on and on, allowing the singer a chance to affect a quasi-drunken vocal performance.
It wouldn’t surprise me to hear that it was accomplished in one solitary take, as the rough and ready style he proffers isn’t one that nominally stems from rehearsal and organised clarity of thought. “This too shall pass,” he mutters, steadying the emotion so that it can hit the right point. If nothing else, the vocals are honest, communicating on gut as well as heart.
Jens Kuross can and should tour the record, as it will respond accordingly to the needs of paying pundits, as it does an aural experience for customers hearing the work on a laptop. Either setting will aid the seasonal feeling, making it a visceral and intimate time for everybody concerned. Despite the title, Crooked Songs is awash with irrepressibly straightforward sentiments that should charm even the most cynical person with their demeanour and character.