THE FIERY FURNACES
"THE PHILADELPHIA GRAND JURY"
from the forthcoming WIDOW CITY
WORDS: AW HENDERSON
It's different, but it's the same. The first 25 seconds sound like a coked-out Spoon with a drum machine, then there's a minute of what sounds like Billy Corgan (in a post-failed-reunion gig, perhaps) schmaltzing it up in a lounge somewhere, except some competitor with a toy piano won't stop heckling him from the crowd, and then Eleanor gets fed up with it and the tempo changes once again, almost for good. "There ain't no more favors to ask/ There ain't no petitions to pass/ It's all in the hands/ It's all in the hands/ Of the Philadelphia Grand Jury now," she sings, not escaping brother Matt's mischevious vocal pitch shifting. "More crooked sons of bitches you can't ever come across" comes out like a sly wink from a supper club songstress, but we're not sure who the wink's for. Before the three-minute mark, Mellotron seizes control, leading pliant drums up and down a fun, but ultimately directionless journey of meta-melody. Throw these constituent parts into a cookie jar and reach in with your eyes closed, assemble at random, and you have the rest of this seven-minute-plus song. And although the Furnaces did basically the same thing on the opening track to 2004's Blueberry Boat, the two tracks couldn't be more different. If I had to give this song any sort of quantitative rating, the closest I could come would be four cupcakes and a pink plastic watering can out of 10. Don't think; just listen.