Review: Jaye Jayle ‘After Alter’
Three years ago I had the chance to review the magnificent Songs I Swore I’d Never Sing, the third album from Lost Dog Street Band frontman Benjamin Tod. It comprised of songs that had been written over the previous decade and came to a head when he did the unthinkable and recorded them, allowing him to expel the catharsis of those emotion millstones and move on.
Similarly, After Alter by Jaye Jayle is a collection of fragments from the past that have been reframed and updated to document the moments in time they represented, not so much a stopgap between albums, but a chance to collect those thoughts and continue forward with renewed purpose.
Jaye Jayle as a concept has morphed over the years, from the initial beginnings of Louisville, Kentucky-based musician and artist Evan Patterson’s tentative, stripped-down, acoustic solo project to a fully-fledged alt-rock sonic powerhouse that has grown from the light-hearted beginnings to a clashing, provocative sound that seeks to defy genres.
Patterson’s pedigree and talent saw him perform hundreds of shows across North America and Europe with the band, playing and recording guitar for Emma Ruth Rundle whom he would later marry, as well as fronting his longtime noise-rock group Young Widows.
Having worked with both Ben Chisolm (Chelsea Wolfe) and David Lynch’s longtime sound engineer Dean Hurley, Patterson would go on to hone minimalist art-rock that can be arresting, defiant and at times terrifying. After Altar comes as a moment of soul searching following 2023’s Don’t Let Your Love Life Get You Down, the emotionally draining response to the ending of his marriage as he attempted to find light in the dark and is very much the product of raw and unfiltered thoughts from the mind of this intriguing artist.
The opening track Father Fiction, which doubled as the lead single, begins immediately with creaking chord stabs and effects that usher in Patterson’s low croon. In a vaudeville-style that collides with electronic alt-rock, the track rises and falls with a sprawling gothic air. Over the fuzzy, discordant creeping guitar he takes aim at religion, swelled by gospel-like female backing vocals as it swings back and forth with woozy industrial beats.
The laconic pulse continues with the slow waltz of Doctor Green. The instrumentalisation ebbs and flows with sensual rhythms that come like breaths, smouldering with danger and a vampiric sexiness that makes the almost spoken-word vocals glide smoothly over the surface. The clashing beats and burn of the guitar solo conjure a feel of Nick Cave and Leonard Cohen put through a blender of atmospherics similar to the visceral edge of Marilyn Manson at the height of his powers.
The piano, blues-driven dirge of Fear Is Here pushes the tension into overdrive. The biting, drifting lyrics juxtapose with the delicate ivory tinkling and seek refuge in the crunch and crackle of the hook before the nightmarish march continues with A Blackout.
The rich haze of the organ and the lazy blues with sliding guitar licks set the scene for the bold narration and acerbic lyrics…
Combining post-hardcore lurching violent drums, distorted guitar grooves and swirling effects, the delirious tone builds and rages towards the repeated refrain of the title until it becomes a raging cacophony. Building to a multi-layered sensory overload with twisted backing vocals, Patterson returns again and again to the spiteful mantra of ‘I’m glad you’re so sad’.
Over a rolling Sabbath-like riff, the band sways with a rolling retro vibe and Bloody Me comes as a moment of relief. The rich haze of the organ and the lazy blues with sliding guitar licks set the scene for the bold narration and acerbic lyrics with the laidback vibes that cannot disguise the snarling, combative retaliation about dressing up for Halloween. The hook is that Patterson dresses like that every day. The spooky drama of the music bristles with a post-punk attitude as it dances like a jerking marionette to the bass-heavy groove.
The hum of electronics and glitching dance of Small Dark Voices is one of the album’s highlights as the sci-fi-like menace teeters on the edge of paranoia. The jittering no-wave vibes lean into ‘80s-like goth-pop that would sit well alongside some of the darker vibes of The Cure or Depeche Mode. At times muted and stripped down compared to the bombast of earlier tracks, Patterson retains a catchy edge that finds you hearing the earworm repeat of ‘Calling… Calling’ before the track slips into a moodier, slower breakdown.
HELP! is a cover of the famed Beatles song and after a languid opening, it morphs into a ballad that loses none of the original’s catchiness. The slow tapping rhythm of the drums allows the smokey, backroom feel of this darker version to sit uncomfortably with you and chew over potential new interpretations of the lyrics. The lounge act nature of the track is at once sultry and listless as the guitar strikes ring out over the grinding bass in a meandering jazz style. You can draw your own conclusion as to the success of the track, but as someone who is not particularly fond of the ‘Fab Four’, it was a refreshing take.
The final entry on the album is a bare-bones solo acoustic version of Bloody Me. Recorded, as stated on the press release, ‘straight to wax… mere hours before Patterson saw Bob Dylan perform for the first time’ which scratches with lo-fi production. Or the pops and crackles of the take as Patterson strums and sings a mournful, tender version that is full of vulnerability and contrasts with the previous swagger of the full production. Ending abruptly on a needle skitter, it draws this eye-opening record to a close.
After Altar comes in a flurry of productivity from Jaye Jayle and marks a full circle point that comes back to his roots having taken stock of what has gone before, as much like the Benjamin Tod album I talked about at the beginning of this review, it allows Jaye Jayle to move forward with the next stage in Patterson’s journey.
Label: Pelagic Records
Band Links: Facebook | Bandcamp | Spotify | Instagram
Scribed by: Mark Hunt-Bryden
