By Jef With One F
By Rocks Off
By Chris Lane
By Angelica Leicht
By Corey Deiterman
By Angelica Leicht
By Corey Deiterman
Kimya Dawson looks legitimately terrified. "I'm totally weirded out," she announces to a sold-out, mashed-in afternoon crowd at Brooklyn's Southpaw. They're largely underage and entirely flush with adoration, and the singer both senses and fears this.
"It's great that you're all here, but treat me normal," she entreats them. "Please don't run up after me...Just walk up to me...or I'm gonna go into hiding [pause]. I'm just kidding [pause]. But seriously [pause]. We're all friends here."
Yes, Dawson suddenly has a lot more friends. Too many, perhaps. By the time you read this, the relentlessly childlike, cringingly sincere thirtysomething folk singer has been the driving engine behind the soundtrack to Academy Award-winning teen-pregnancy comedy Juno.
This show is gonna feel really, really weird. For everyone, and particularly for Dawson.
If you've not yet had the pleasure of Juno, by all means, have at it. It's sweet and heartwarming and winsome in its utter preposterousness. Just the fakest dialogue imaginable. Pop-culture-savvy sarcasm as suburban religion. Teenagers who talk like thirtysomething screenwriters. "Cool" parents who talk like teenage screenwriters. A 16-year-old heroine who actually says things like "Just looking to secure a hasty abortion!" and "Just dealing with things way outside my maturity level!" and (grits teeth) "Swear to blog!"
Juno is appallingly cute. You'll probably really like it. And there on Rhino's soundtrack — a recent Billboard No. 1 album — bobbing and weaving amid the obligatory "indie" blockbuster tunes (Belle & Sebastian, Kinks), is Kimya Dawson: her primal, primitive odes to tire swings and vampires and roller coasters goosing us along, her wobbly voice and furtively chicken-scratched double-time guitar coming on like a terrified little kid who just ditched the training wheels and is now somehow barreling down a mountain.
Because the Academy foolishly but predictably chose to nominate three songs from Enchanted instead of anything from Juno, Dawson missed out on her vastly uncomfortable Elliot Smith Oscar-night moment. But just imagine what might have been.
She's onstage in front of millions with her mushroom-cloud shock of hair, her labret piercing, her enveloping arm tattoos and her striped socks, sweetly mumbling through "Anyone Else but You," the pulverizingly twee power ballad from her old band, NYC "antifolk" heroes the Moldy Peaches, which provides Juno's saccharine closing moment.
This is a Garden State situation, with all the fearsome backlash that entails. My fiancée immediately wanted to use "Anyone Else" as our first wedding dance. I, uh, did not.
Of course, now I'm watching Dawson at Southpaw, and she's sheepish and guileless and awkward in a way that you really can't fake, with her loopy, yammering banter ("My old water-aerobics teacher always told me I had to work on my posture") and jittery odes to not caring about whether or not she's cool, or at least thinking she doesn't, or something.
Next to me is a baby strapped to Mommy, upright and facing outward at eye level in one of those BabyBjörn things, and the cooing baby's fists are balling up happily, and I'm like, "Yeah, I'm gonna fuckin' hate this music the baby likes." Jesus.
This is the Kimya Dawson conundrum: hard to hate and even harder to enjoy.
To start with, you gotta divorce her from Juno. Even if you fall for the flick, it requires you to turn off that part of your brain governing skepticism, cynicism and rational human conversation, and it plays up Dawson's clunkiest, most aggravating tunes, particularly the grating "Loose Lips." Which, of course, is her last and most rapturously received song at Southpaw, the crowd yipping delightedly along.
In a darkened theater, Dawson is easy to dismiss as hollow affectation. No one over ten years old can actually be like this. But her own albums are much tougher to shake off, particularly 2006's Remember That I Love You (the one Juno most frequently plunders).
If you think dissing something a baby is actively enjoying is bad juju, try speaking ill of "My Mom," when all that rushed, amateurish clunkiness turns suddenly devastating. Lines like "the human body's made up of good and bad bacteria, but the antibiotics and the antibacterials are killing all the good ones" may look ridiculous in print, but hearing Dawson bleat them live can obliterate an awful lot of discouraging words.
The Moldy Peaches, most famous for Dawson's bunny suit and their dubious distinction of releasing an album that included the song "NYC's Like a Graveyard" on September 11, 2001 (song titles like "Who's Got the Crack" and "Downloading Porn with Davo" were much more instructive), proved easy to dismiss as some bewildering art-school prank, the East Village feigning mental retardation as a defense mechanism.
But as a solo entity now relocated to Seattle, Dawson has flourished by regressing even further, and her Southpaw set has hit its stride with a string of children's songs that sound like they were written by children as well. Farts are a major motif: There's an alphabet song in which E stands for "elephant farts," S for "stink," T for "turd," U for "uh-oh," and Z for "farts that smell like the zoo."
The killer, in fact, is "The Smoothie Song," in which a pregnant Dawson (she's now got a daughter named Panda Delilah, which I couldn't have made up in a million years) demands a smoothie because she's scared that her unborn child hasn't moved in awhile, and smoothies reliably create a sensation "like a fart in a tub inside of me." It's impossible to imagine anyone else singing that, or Dawson singing anything else.