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Children Of 'The Con'
Author: Matt Sharp (NPR)
Published: July 18, 2017
- Tegan and Sara's landmark album is turning 10. We asked 14 artists, one for each song, to explain how it changed their lives and music
I.
Something interesting happened one day on the way to my 40s: Like a Gravitron ride at a pop-up amusement park, the floor suddenly fell right out from under me. The fiercest, most debilitating wave of depression struck my mind with such a violent force that it left me spinning for months, clinging to the padded walls of this rickety carnival ride. On the days that followed this storm, I found myself curled up on the couch, gasping for air, drained of all positive life force and weeping uncontrollably. It was in this state that I found myself when a small, tan, bubble-wrapped envelope arrived in the mail containing a couple homemade gold CDs adorned with casual handwriting and smiley faces, letting me know that my dear friend Sara Quin had just written a couple new songs.
II.
Maybe it was the dissonance of her reflections, the minor key, the disjointed nature of her more abstract writing in the early sketches of "Floorplan," "Knife Going In" and "Like O, Like H" that was hitting too close to home, but her chords and words and melodies became an accomplice in the corruption of my everyday thoughts.
- "If I don't recover, sell this house and find something lost outside your window / Not forever, but on the night I die, I swear I'll fall asleep outside your window."
I kept listening; hour after unproductive hour, hoping to come up with some meaningful way to contribute to what would undoubtedly be a remarkable next chapter in her already incredible creative life — but I came up with nothing. What needed to be said, in my unwavering opinion, had already been said. It spoke to me and it spoke clearly. So with great embarrassment I put in a call that I truly wished I hadn't had to make, but felt I had no choice. I tried to elicit her sympathy with toned down, comedic tales of my grief-stricken state, and then I hemmed and hawed until I finally spit it out: "There is absolutely no way I will be able to make it up to Portland."
III.
A recording studio can often be its own hermetically sealed micro-universe, where the collective chemistry is easily influenced by adding or subtracting one individual to its tiny population. As I slowly navigated my way through the dense fog of Grants Pass, Ore., the fear of what would happen to Chris Walla and the innocent citizens of Conville once I added my noxious compound to the mix preoccupied me for nearly all of my journey's 962 miles.
The demos I'd received were already layered with these brilliant keyboards that Sara had played at her apartment in Montreal. They had a very distinct point of view and you could tell those sounds were going to color the album in a way that was unique to her. A couple years before I had scattered a few atmospheric synthesizers in the background of So Jealous, but it quickly became apparent that those same ingredients wouldn't be helpful here. The executive decision was made for me to try and add a little bass guitar instead, to be the barbaric yang to Hunter Burgan's proficient yin. Sara's keyboard parts had already filled the songs with boundless amounts of comforting low frequencies — so off I went on an adventure I rarely make, above the 12th fret.
IV.
I can remember sitting at the mixing board next to Chris. He had this Raymond Babbitt ability to keep track of each time I was slightly ahead or behind the beat. Then he would ask me to play the same part one more time and with savant-like precision, he would "punch in" and "punch out" as the song rolled along on this glitchy, antiquated digital recording system that he seemed to love for some reason. After just one or two additional passes through whatever song we were working on, Chris would say, "Got it!" To which I would ask, "Got what?" and receive an economical, "Oh, nothing." He had the gift to make us sound like we were all one-take wonders. And before I knew it, I was on my way back home.
V.
In some ways, The Con is that album most of us secretly hope our favorite band is just about to make: one where the raw desire to share their story leaves things a little rough around the edges. You may struggle a little to find your connection with albums like this one: They can be unsettling, a little off-center, odd in tone and difficult to understand, at first. But once you get there, after moving through the dissonance and making it to the other side, the bond that you share with that music can become so meaningful that it just might stay with you forever.
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