The benefit of having two vehicles is that you can drive one through the dirt while keeping the other pristine. Cory Hanson first came to our attention a decade or so ago as the frontman of Los Angeles group Wand, whose melodies were always a little sweeter and more soaring than the rest of the scuzzy West Coast psych-rock scene they came up in. Hanson has now found a way to follow his muse in two opposing directions, by interspersing Wand albums – increasingly dense, ominous and unpredictable, as on last year’s Vertigo – with solo records of impressive poise and restraint.
The benefit of having two vehicles is that you can drive one through the dirt while keeping the other pristine. Cory Hanson first came to our attention a decade or so ago as the frontman of Los Angeles group Wand, whose melodies were always a little sweeter and more soaring than the rest of the scuzzy West Coast psych-rock scene they came up in. Hanson has now found a way to follow his muse in two opposing directions, by interspersing Wand albums – increasingly dense, ominous and unpredictable, as on last year’s Vertigo – with solo records of impressive poise and restraint.
I Love People swells with strings, horns and choirs but in a way that is meticulously controlled and never gratuitous, every ounce of indulgent flab forensically removed in the manner of one of the great Nashville arrangers. But anyone who’s followed Hanson’s career thus far will know that he’s not in the business of providing earnest, easy-listening solace. And so it proves: his pristine vehicle is a Trojan horse, taking you on a journey into the dark heart of the American dream.
One of the abiding tropes of rock or country music is the promise (to men, anyway) of a vague, alluring freedom – the open road and the desert wind. But the misanthropic narrator of gorgeous opener “Bird On A Swing” lays out in deft couplets exactly what a life of running away really means: “I can count all my friends/Like I count all my debts/On the middle finger of my right hand/Where all my promises are kept”. This lone ranger is a “bitter soul” with “sadness in my skull” – but as he notes, ruefully, “that’s the cost of being free”.
As you probably also guessed, this album’s title track is not exactly a straightforward ode to humanity. Turns out Cory Hanson loves people in much the same way that Randy Newman loves LA: sardonically and selectively. “I love people, I think they are works of art,” he sings, his innocent voice bursting with mischief. “I love people, I know they’re animals at heart.” The song is joyously anthemic enough that you could imagine it being pumped out by gormless daytime radio DJs, without realising that their own fake bonhomie is one of the targets of Hanson’s scorn.
And what to make of “Santa Claus Is Coming Back To Town”, in which Hanson ladles on the schmaltz, only to relate some terrifying perversion of the nativity tale in which “the lamb lies in the manger and there’s a tombstone in his bed”? Later, “Old Policeman” steals the melody of the traditional lullaby “Hush, Little Baby” to paint a depressing portrait of a washed-up cop, “searching PornHub on his phone”. It gets more unsettling each time you hear it.
Yet the ravishing “Lou Reed” feels utterly sincere, a touching tribute to the old curmudgeon’s latter-day spiritual awakening, and how “the darkness came to life” amid the biting honesty of his New York tales: beacons of hope, despite their apparent hopelessness. A …Wild Side-style saxophone enters the song at the exact point Hanson sings the word “saxophones”, before doubling the wordless chorus – a touch that flirts knowingly with cheese, but is so perfectly executed that it becomes completely transcendent.
The album ends with a savage twist on that familiar country trope, the narrator “three sheets to the wind” in a “one-star town”, regretting his life choices. Except he hasn’t just lost his woman, he’s lost his mind, his subconscious stalked by emboldened racists, high-ranking perverts and the horror of waking up in a cold sweat with Naked And Afraid on the TV (we’ve all been there). “Their quilted flesh is on the scene/Sewn together by my dreams/As I light a fire in the jungle of my hotel room,” Hanson sings, as guitars twang cheerily and the pedal steel shimmers. “Get in the tomb.” It’s a pretty damning final verdict: that selfish pursuit of that fabled open road has driven generations of men insane and possibly even into an early grave. But the music is so lovely, and the lyrics so smart, you’re reassured that all hope is not lost.
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