Brian Dunne: Clams Casino

I’m honestly not certain what possessed me to listen to this record. I think his “Clams Casino” song ended up in some new music playlist on my Apple Music or something. And I was like, “Hey, it’s another singer-songwriter writing kinda-sorta Americana alt-country with a twang! Damn, that’s new; I should definitely jump on that.” And then my brain snapped to after track two started (“Clams Casino” being track one) and I was like what the fuck am I doing with my life? But it was too late, I was underground without data and this album was downloaded and already playing. Technology sucks sometimes — my Discman wouldn’t have let me down like this. Granted, I would have had to fish around in my bag for that other Pavement CD.

So what do I do here? I was expecting Ben Kweller or even MJ Lenderman-level pop-laden tunes. But I got some stuff that felt at times like direct Billy Joel rips and at other times Tom Petty light. All couched in a “Little Pink Houses” uncanny valley accent. But really what it all feel like is as though he listened to Ryan Adams’ “New York, New York,” copped his style and twang and, as a New Yorker (albeit one from a county north of NYC), just kind of made that music. Which, I suppose, means he ultimately wants to be Paul Simon — you know, since that song itself sounds like a tribute to Simon? Whatever the case, I won’t shit on his hero aspirations, but all of that glazing (as the kids say) shines through in a way that blunts his music and annoys me. Especially when the Billy Joel of it all peeks through. I do not enjoy Billy Joel. Not one bit.

And I think where it all kind of bumps for me is the absolute predictability of his songs. The almost chronic need to go exactly where you expect him to go. As if he bought the song template book, laid it down on the page and just filled it in. The best example is “Rockland County,” with its rote structure and super-irritating “Back where we started, back where we stared, back where we started from” refrain that almost feels like a troll it’s so saccharine and hokey. And, look, I’m not going to pretend to be a songwriter, and I’m sure this shit is hard, but when you listen back and your song sounds suspiciously like the awful career-ending George Harrison song, “Got My Mind Set On You,” maybe it’s time to rethink your approach.

I know this is somehow supposed to be a NYC record. I’m in NYC every day. This record is about as NYC as a cow fart. The City has a rhythm. And a feel. This ain’t it. Sure you can name your songs after NYC spots like Gracie Mansion (a spot I used to live three short blocks from up in the yawnsville Yorkville neighborhood) and Max’s Kansas City (which hasn’t existed since 1981), but that doesn’t a NYC album make. The vibe is too dour, too depression-era manufacturing town. And I don’t totally dislike the more slick “Fake Version of the Real Thing,” despite the irony that he’s basically doing his best Dire Straits “Sultans of Swing” imitation. Ironic, right? Not like Alanis Morissette irony, you understand. Like he does a fake version of the real thing, which is the name of the… You get it. Anyhow, this album is certainly not bad. In fact, I’m sure there is a lot here for some people to enjoy. People love tribute bands. People love stuff that sounds a lot like other stuff that isn’t technically that stuff. People love jukeboxes. Point is, Dunne will run all of these people through a nice gauntlet of popular American music over the past four or five decades, and in doing so make a fan of everyone but those of us just looking to let Dunne be Dunne. (Or I could be mean and say let Dunne be done. But I would never do that.)