In Praise Of… “Spilt Milk” by Jellyfish

For my inaugural entry on this fine site (sophomore entry, if you count my introduction), I can think of no better example of something I love wholeheartedly (well, nearly) that seemed to pass most folks right by than the second album by the band Jellyfish, ‘Spilt Milk’. While most music aficionados will be clued into the band and their output, your average Joe has no idea who they are or what blissful melodies and sublime guitar pop they were capable of. To those people, I say, that’s just really sad. But fret not! I’m here to help, and point you to one of the best musical secrets of the past 20 years. If you follow my instructions and run out and get a copy after reading this column, you’ll thank me. And your heart and your ears will be thanking you for a long time to come.

But before we get to my first love fest here on FRED, I should explain what I’m NOT trying to do within this essay. Jellyfish burned extra brightly but half as long, to misquote Mr. Tyrell, and I wish they’d at some point get it all together and make another record. (When I was a producer on VH1’s Bands Reunited I constantly campaigned to go after them, which always fell on deaf ears). But this won’t be about the history of the band, it’s politics, label frustrations, post band work or what cool people have dropped their name in interviews. All of that, I’m sure, you can get on dozens of other sites, far more informed than I am. No, this is just going to be about one man’s unabashed love for another group of men with musical talent.

I’m not positive when it was when I first heard of Jellyfish, but I seem to recall seeing a video or two from their first album, Bellybutton, in 1992 when they were getting loads of airplay on MTV. The song “The King is Half Undressed” was a minor hit, but I didn’t take much notice of them, and never got the record. (I picked it up much later, it’s a fine album, but their follow up is miles ahead of it). A year later, their second effort Spilt Milk was released. I’m not sure what drew me to it, and I certainly hadn’t heard anything off of it. I seem to recall bringing the CD to the counter at a Sam Goody in Minneapolis, and the guy behind it giving me a “thumbs up”. “Great record”, he said. “Really? What’s it like?” I asked. “Well, it’s kind of like the album that Queen and The Beatles never made.” If he had said it had pictures of nude women on the CD face and the case folded out and could be made into a working robot I couldn’t have slapped my hard earned rupees down fast enough. But surely he was being a bit too enthusiastic, no? Beatle-esque was a term bandied about pretty frequently, but I’d never heard a band that sounded even remotely close to Queen. I wasn’t sure there was anyone with courage enough to try. And then I stuck that little shiny disc into the car’s CD player, and was floored from track one onwards.

Now, admittedly, your enjoyment of this record may have a lot to do with how you feel about several bands: the previously mentioned Beatles and Queen, Breakfast in America era Supertramp, The Beach Boys, Wings and Badfinger. (I remember when Alex Ross and I first started our epic phone calls; it wasn’t long before the subject of music came up. By the sheer number and types of bands we were both into, it wasn’t long before one of us asked the other about Jellyfish and Spilt Milk. It was an “instant bond”, if you will). So, if you have a seething hatred of any of the above, you may want to stop reading. To be clear, you don’t have to LOVE any of those artists to dig this album, but I thought it fair to warn you anyway. As you can probably ascertain already, I’m a Beatles fanatic, and Queen are a top ten favorite. The rest I enjoy, but in dribs and drabs. So, now that we’ve gotten the pedigree of Jellyfish out of the way, what about the record?

The album starts off with a slow, quiet build. Fittingly, the first track is called “Hush”. It really takes it’s time, with what sounds like notes being played on a tinkly child’s piano, before the curtain comes back and beautiful, layered near acapela harmonies sing a sort of lullaby. It’s a little over two minutes, and ends with a “Good night” from the guys, and then the tinkly piano fades out. It’s a strange way to BEGIN a record, wishing us good night and singing us to sleep. But its soon apparent that nothing on this record is ordinary.

Once “Hush” has drifted off to dreamland, guitars and drums come crashing in, signifying the start of track 2, “Joining a Fan Club”. “She turned the night light on and blew him a kiss/He stared back through his green Crayola eyes”, is the first line, and the first of the slightly tongue in cheek lyrical moments through out the record. The song seems to be sung from the perspective of a teenage girl infatuated with a pop star, but man, the tune is all over the place. It’s essentially three different songs, because it manages to get so many different tempos going, similar to McCartney’s “Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey” or Queen’s “Bicycle Race”. As it starts to wrap up, our teen seems to be getting over the crush, saying “Joining a fan club, it’s a big mistake/ I still get heartburn, when I think about all of the stamps I ate”. Things may not have gone well for the pop idol, as he crashes his car and we’re told to “say a prayer for a fallen star”. Great tune.

Next up is “Sabrina, Paste and Plato”, and our tinkly little piano comes in again, backing our narrator who seems to be in grade school and telling us about his crush. Its another great song, pure pop, but bordering on sickly sweet. The best way to describe it, and I’m no expert on such things, is that it wouldn’t be out of place in a musical the way the story’s told to us. There’s even a chorus of children towards the end, singing what sounds a bit like a nursery rhyme.

The next two tracks are my favorites on the record, and in my alternate reality they’d have both been chart toppers. First up is “New Mistake”, which might have been the first single, I don’t recall. It’s such pure pop beauty that every single time I hear it; it’s as fresh as the first listen. There are few tunes that can do that to me, songs that I literally never get sick of. The Beatles, sure, goes without saying. But even with the Fabs, there are times when I wish I could ‘un hear’ the stuff because I know it so well. I try and give myself breaks from them from time to time, so I can take it all in again. But every now and again, there are songs so perfect and timeless that I could hear ’em every day and still keep smiling, without necessarily being an obsessive of the rest of the artist’s output. “Baker Street” by Gerry Rafferty is one, ‘Roll to Me”, by Del Amirti comes to mind as well. And “New Mistake” is on that list.

The song is basically about getting a girl pregnant, but it could be about landing on Jupiter for all I care. Drums kick the song off, acoustic and electric guitars bring in the melody, the bass line is magnificent. The verses give way to a chorus that sounds like something by Supertramp or any number of acts from the late 70s, with an added edge. It even has the same rhythm flourishes that are in the opening of “the Logical Song”. Without gushing too much more, it has to be heard to be appreciated, but if you fall in love with it, I promise it’ll deliver a smile every time.

Track 5 is my other favorite, and my feelings for it are so close to “New Mistake” that I feel like I’m cheating on it. “Glutton of Sympathy” begins with faint sounds of crickets, leads to a quiet vocal and acoustic guitar. Andy Sturmer’s voice does soft and loud equally well on the album, and his work on this tune alone is sublime. When the chorus comes, the full band kicks in and there are more gorgeous Beatle-esque (you knew that word was coming at some point) harmonies, pleading with whoever is being sung to. The bridge has another favorite line, “Indecision won’t you ever make up your mind?” and gives us a nice mini guitar solo, more harmonies, then Sturmer’s pleading “Will you never cease to be/the Glutton of Sympathy?” before descending to a beautiful close. Those last two tracks could have been a double A side, for my money.

“The Ghost at Number One” was another single off the record, and it’s a belter. Loud guitars, that damn tinkly piano again in the choruses, and enough pop harmony to make Brian Wilson blush. I think the song is about deceased artists making it to Number 1 on the charts, which is sort of really about the labels exploiting the artists for monetary gain. It’s got a bite and bile to it that’s missing from the record up to this point, and it’s heavier than what’s come before too. It’s a nice punch to the gut in the record, which is needed, and brings me to another great point. The album is laid out so near perfectly, track wise, that other bands could study it when planning their masterpieces.
The “side one” closer is “Bye, Bye, Bye”, and suddenly we’re at a traditional Jewish wedding. The middle section is right out of “Fiddler on the Roof”. It’s a great way to close the first half of the album, and sounds absolutely nothing like anything that’s come before it. Again, it sounds most like it belongs in a Broadway show, but in a good way.

The next track, and “side two” opener, is “All is Forgiven”. Guitar feedback signals the onslaught of pounding drums and a cacophony of notes; it’s a whirling tornado of a tune, the noisiest on the record. It took me years to get into it, but when I started to notice the payoff of the song following it, I began to appreciate it more. “Russian Hill” is absolutely gorgeous, the kind of song Nick Drake might have written in a much more minimalist way. The strings and harmonies get me every time.

The rest of the record is wonderful, don’t get me wrong, but it doesn’t hold the appeal for me that those first nine songs do. I realize as I’m writing this that it will become apparent to anyone reading that I’m no record critic. But I guess that’s the point of what I’m trying to do with this column, just give my gut reactions to items from different mediums. You know, the old, “don’t know much about art but I know what I like” defense.

Anyway, back to the record. If Spilt Milk has a flaw, an Achilles Heel, it’s one track keeping it from being a perfect record, it’s “He’s My Best Friend”. It’s an ode to the singer’s penis, and while the tune itself is as eminently hum-able as anything they ever did, the lyrics bring it into comedy album territory. Yes, that’s right, dear readers. Just a few short years after XTC gave us the classic “Pink Thing”, another great band decided to give us a love song to male genitalia. I give them a pass, though; every band has a “Revolution #9” in their arsenal.

“Too Much, Too Little, Too Late” and “Brighter Day” are the album closers, and take us from a fond farewell to a bizarre parade/carnival, complete with horns, cymbals and a marching band drive. All in about 10 minutes. As the last notes fade out via strings and harp, we’re taken back to the quiet hush of where we came in, and the band float off into the distance. I’m not sure how long the end came after this record’s release, I only hope it was as amicable as those things can be. I like to think the door’s still open for these geniuses to work together again.

If any of this has been of interest, and you eventually get the record and enjoy it, be sure to track down the clutch of B sides Jellyfish released as well. “Worthless Heart” is a beautiful demo, one can only imagine how it eventually would have been filled out, and “Family Tree” is the “shoulda-been-on-the-album” tune, the best song Free never recorded.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this little voyage, and that maybe I’ve turned a few more people out there on to this great band. It’s probably one of the albums I give a spin at least a couple of times a month, whether it’s turned up loud in the car or on in the background at home whilst surfing the internet. Because of the miracle of the iPod age and the death of the album, there are artists I love (The Jam, The Kinks, Neil Finn, Radiohead), whose output I keep on shuffle, never minding so much that the songs are all over the place. I’m as guilty as anyone. But Jellyfish’s Spilt Milk is one of the rare ones that I need to hear from beginning to end. I’d love it if any of you out there can hip me to something similar in your lives. Let’s bring the album back to life together. Be seeing you…

– Jason Lenzi

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