The Chameleon Poet
A Poet is the most unpoetical of any thing in existence; because he has no Identity — he is continually in for — and filling some other Body — The Sun, the Moon, the Sea and Men and Women who are creatures of impulse are poetical and have about them an unchangeable attribute — the poet has none; no identity...
~John Keats
Writing to his friend Richard Woodhouse, John Keats, the same poet who incorrectly presumed his name would be “writ in water,” proclaimed: “What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the camelion Poet.” With a stroke of the pen, Keats was doing more than coining a phrase (or misspelling a word), he was establishing his artistic aim; he desired to be a “chameleon poet,” an artist who is able to abnegate the self and pour his being into different molds. A chameleon poet seeks not self-expression but instead to become something wholly other than the self.
My favorite songwriters have always been chameleons. The hue of their voices change from song to song. They cloak themselves boldly in the colors of any and all musical genres. Some songs glow in sepia tones of the past while others sound like some iridescent future. Their souls are bedazzled in prismatic camouflage. The person disappears, and only the artist remains. Just when you think you’ve nailed them down, they’re gone, off to some musical space both unfamiliar and perilous.
If you know me, you know what’s coming next. Bob Dylan is the quintessential chameleon songwriter. I won’t belabor that point. I don’t want to bore you or become too predictable. Instead, I want to write about Daniel Romano.
Romano is unrestrained in his artistic exploration. He’s obliged to nothing and no one. It is this wandering and adventurous spirit that makes him great. Take his first record Workin’ for the Music Man. It takes you back in time to cowboy songs, to the whining of pedal steel, and to campfire guitar pickin’. But this record is more than an imitation of old America. The writing is strong. He doesn’t just say: “I saw this pretty girl at the bar.” No. He writes on “Missing Wind:” “I kept that little French girl tucked behind my eyelids/ Three times to the hour 'till her glass reached the bottom.” His poetic gifts are clear and original from the start.
Like all good chameleon songwriters, Romano sticks with a genre for a while — investigating every dark corner, trying to discover something someone left behind. His next two records — Sleep Beneath the Window and Come Cry With Me — remain country/folk inspired records. The singing is gentle and smooth and pretty. On a song like “Nothing,” he captures a relationship in decline with an exacting image. The absence of love is there as the speaker cleans up after another frigid dinner: “There's nothing in my arms/ But dirty paper plates/ And nothing in the look on your cold and distant face.”
Psychedelic shades begin to emerge on If I’ve Only One Time Askin’. The arrangements get quite elaborate on this record as well. And maybe that’s one of my favorite things about Romano’s work. His ability to weave instruments in and out of songs is where much of his genius resides. Remember, writing a good song isn’t just about the lyrics. The musicality of the song is the initial draw.
The most noticeable shift in his catalogue comes on Mosey. And this was the record I first discovered. I saw the video for “(Gone is) All But a Quarry of Stone,” and I haven’t looked back. This is a rock n’ roll record, but there are elements of jazz, acid rock, blues, punk, country, folk — nothing is off limits. The changes get a little more ornate, and ideas, ultimately, are what ground these songs. There’s an intentionality and concept that underpins every track. Mosey is melodic philosophizing as much as it is good music.
Side Note: I’m a sucker for rock n’ roll stars who dress cool. I have to at least mention that Romano is a great dresser. He quite literally takes on new personas with his evolving attire. Whether it’s the Nudie Suit he dons on Come Cry With Me or the hooligan tracksuit and Dylan-fro a la the Mosey period, Romano becomes the music.
Romano’s most recent work has been some of his best. Modern Pressure is the epitome of the chameleon songwriter at work. The record as a whole is impatient and frenetic. It can’t stand still. The lyrical images move almost as fast as the guitar work or drum fills. The best part of the record is that you can’t get settled in. You survive from line to line. Describing a wasteland governed by Amazon Prime bourgeoisie, Romano moans: “The name of every landlord is displayed out on the awning/ And the farmers in the amber fields were harmonized in yawning/ As the memory of the ghost hung at the exit/ And the city doctor called in feeling head sick.” Boredom and depression are symptoms of our modern malaise. The music feels exhilaratingly like the first punch thrown at a riot.
Finally Free finds Romano projecting yet more colors from his artistic spectrum. Its rawness and imperfections are its very highlights. The writing is surreal and abstract. The songs might be best understood as sonic paintings. Admittedly, Finally Free can be hard to grasp on first listen. But, like most works of art, understanding comes from the hard work required of understanding. I think I listened to the record some half dozen times before it revealed itself to me. As the title suggests, Romano is finally free of the ego and unbridled by trying to appeal to what people want or might expect.
Romano, like Keats’s chameleon poet, has no identity, and that’s his greatest appeal. He can be or become anything. His work is hammered out in the forge of artistic anarchy; it’s the place true artists call home.
