Some bands want their live show to sound like the record. Other bands want their record to sound like their live show. And then there’s Mercy Choir, whose Kitchen Knife Collection sounds like how live shows feel. There’s a difference there. You won’t actually hear the muffled voices in the back of the club talking over the music, but you’d swear that it’s somewhere in the mix. You might listen to this record before lunch, but you’ll swear that it’s just past 9:30PM.
One of my favorite things about following Mercy Choir (the songwriting vehicle of Paul Belbusti) is how every record is a response to the last. Consider the past few releases:
Fair Games (2017): an album of “quickly composed” songs for a residency at Never Ending Books in New Haven, all written and recorded by Belbusti.
More Than Ever (2018): an EP with a full backing band recorded at Lyric Hall in New Haven. It’s loose and freewheeling with its larger sound.
Upturned in Everest (2019): a expertly-polished album of pop music, written and recorded by Belbusti in his home studio in a process that took a full year.
Corinthian (2020): a stripped-back acoustic record, made before the quarantine but perfectly emblemizing the concerns and anxieties of those early weeks of the pandemic.
And that brings us to Kitchen Knife Collection, a record that simultaneously loves and hates its own circumstances, like a jaded lounge singer wryly telling the audience “it’s so good to be here again”. You know that’s a half-truth. Is it really so good to be here tonight? But after the pandemic, it’s hard to read that stage banter as an empty platitude. Yes: It really is so good to be here. Thanks for coming, drive safe, and don’t forget to tip the bartender. This record refutes the loneliness of Corinthian.
But again, Kitchen Knife Collection has no overt narrative, nor is it a straight-forward simulation of a live show. Instead, it captures the essence of a live show in a more abstract way. In these 8-or-so tracks, the bands that play are all a version of Mercy Choir: “Just for Fun” is a surreal and funereal New Orleans jazz band; “Fiddler in the North” is a Bob Dylan-style raconteur; “Crime Not to Try” is a quintessential local favorite; “Mary the Contrarian” is a slightly psychedelic pop band. All of these songs reflect some aspect of Belbusti as a songwriter, with no truly definitive “Mercy Choir” behind the microphone on any given song. That too makes this record a response to Cortinthian, whose style was much more singular in its solitude and sound.
Belbusti wisely opted not to include his 2020 singles on Kitchen Knife Collection. Even though those songs are incredibly strong (sup, “Nightingale Blue”) , they just don’t feel like the kitchen knives in this particular drawer. The production of this record lends itself to the naturalistic sounds you’d hear in an actual live space. I keep thinking of the space between the notes, like the tinkling piano and sparse drums of “Crime Not to Try”. It reminds you not just of a physical space, but it reminds you that what you are hearing was performed by a person, somewhere, some place. In a year (and a half) of us all testing out the hermetic monk lifestyle, it’s a welcome reminder that you’re not alone if you are listening to good music.
Thanks, Mercy Choir. It’s so good to be here again.
You can find more great coverage of Mercy Choir at My Emu Is Emo, who did a track-by-track commentary on the slyness of Kitchen Knife Collection, and at the New Haven Independent, who interviewed Paul about the album.
