It sort of doesn’t quite seem right that we’re here at all. Right? Right. Five albums have already been submitted under the Eels moniker, not to mention solo endeavours from main-man E, like a band formed from his own neuroses, under his sole direction and image, wasn’t enough. This was a band too that many thought would collapse in on themselves like a novelty hit black hole after their debut had the good fortune to provide MTV with two wholesome, perfect, sweet slices of misshapen grunge-pop in the mid 90s. Take Eels’ career on face value and they’d be languishing on a shelf with no better company than Cake by now. But we find ourselves here, an album sat before us in gaudy (and some would say wacky, trivial) orange and purple wrapping, considering how there are few who can justify packing 17 tracks on to a single record, never mind adding another 16 in the same vein, calling it a double, stealing your rapt attention from meandering beginning to heart-choking end and laying serious claim to a dusty sash marked ‘classic’.
The last two albums, ‘Souljacker’ and ‘Shootenanny’ respectively, may have toyed with the Eels template, adding the sense of a break for freedom from his DIY song factory, but it is here that he lays it all out flat, stands back and invites you to explore. Or at least that he’d like to show you around – at the best of times, in spite of the shiny wrapper and pop packaging, to hear him sing is to feel like you’re intruding on a bruised man’s personal space. That remains here, but the breathtaking consistency of the whole double album breaks that down a little, especially by the time disc 2 comes around. Like once you’ve done something a couple of times with blessing, the perceived wisdom is that it’s alright to do it again. And he is on invitingly verbose form, his roasted home-cooked tones practicing a more timeless narration this time, quirks still intact.
And that’s evidently helped on by the accomplished quilt of musicianship spread over these songs. There are guitars plucked like twinkling, wind-up ballerinas in a box, songs simplistic like nursery rhymes, woodwind, strings and brass stalk better lit melodies from the shadows, there are drums that march stringently and drift anonymously, pianos that aid the storytelling and so much more. There are comparisons to be had with Tom Waits, REM, Beck, Bob Dylan, Big Star, Lemonheads and Grandaddy. He finds a comfortable pace (though, you understand, not that comfortable) from which to impart his tales, but sears away from this on occasion, like on the brilliant ‘Going Fetal’ (“just get down under the desk, feels like your mama’s nest, alright!”), ‘Old Shit/New Shit’ and the single ‘Hey Man’, as if he’s coming up for air.
The 33 tracks begin as a seemingly insurmountable mountain of melancholy, only to crumble away as you find they’re not to scale at all and nothing to be afraid of, then build themselves back up as you realise quite how much magnificent detail is packed in. He has grown in every direction. This is surely going to be impossible to top.