Like Phil Spector in the ’60s or Glyn Johns in the ’70s, Jon Brion seems to produce everything and anything. That’s him behind the wheel for The Wallflowers’ “One Headlight” and Rufus Wainwright’s self-titled debut. There he is turning knobs for Fiona Apple, then, famously, not. Finally, he shows up for Kanye West’s Late Registration, a pairing that is as surprising as it is fruitful.
Brion is also a ridiculously accomplished musician with a superhuman ear. His weekly stints at L.A.’s Largo, at which he plays obscure instruments and takes audience requests for impromptu covers, are legendary. Some of his songs have shown up on movie soundtracks, but his best work can be found on the self-released Meaningless.
Meaningless shows off everything Jon Brion has to offer. It’s a meticulously produced, arranged, and written endeavor, with an endless shelf life. The disc starts with “Gotta Start Somewhere,” with its sardonic opening line “I may not have anything to offer you/ I may not have anything to say that’s new/ But you’ve gotta start somewhere.” It’s a throat-clearing of sorts, a comment that Brion knows what you’re thinking: this is all bullshit. But, he’s adding, it’s inevitable, so why not?
Brion also co-produced Aimee Mann’s masterful Bachelor No. 2 around this time, and the baroque production of Meaningless matches Mann’s record, detail for detail. Mann even co-wrote the record’s best track, “I Believe She’s Lying,” which is as frenetic as it is heartbreaking. Its chorus -- “I believe she’s lying/ I trust her to undermine my faith in her/ In time, I have every confidence she’ll dismantle mine” -- is quintessential Brion (and Mann): emotional, darkly funny, and concisely clever.
The genius of Meaningless is Brion’s use of his two greatest assets: production and songwriting. In providing the former, Brion knows when to make things charmingly complicated (as on “Lying” and the funnily confident shuffle “Walking Through Walls,” co-written by Grant Lee Phillips, which features Brion sweetly singing “motherfucker” in the background) or simple (the brutally intimate relationship ballad, “Same Mistakes”). These songs are nothing short of perfect. The McCartney-esque melodies are catchy enough to make an immediate impression, and the lyrics, seemingly simple, have meanings that permeate later. From “Hook, Line, and Sinker”: “I’m feeling for all the world like I’m feeling for all the world.”
Thematically, Meaningless sticks to what Brion School fans know well: addiction (emotional or otherwise), heartbreak, malaise, and tongue-in-cheek exuberance. In this way, much of the record calls to mind the best work Brion has produced, from Mann to Apple, Eels to Wainwright. There’s happiness in spots, but it’s cautious or ironic.
For kicks, Brion ends the disc with a cover of Cheap Trick’s gorgeous ballad “Voices,” and it’s then that you realize: what you’ve just listened to, with its esoteric lyrics and detailed arrangements, is still just pop music. At its core, it’s no different from Cheap Trick, Herman’s Hermits, or AC/DC. And thank god for that.