Americans love a good crime story. From Scorsese flicks, to Scarface remakes, to AMC originals about men who ominously claim to be "the one who knocks," to those true crime podcasts your aunt fearlessly binges; Americans are obsessed with the underbelly of our society as a source of entertainment. I can't say for certain why, but if I had to guess (and I will) it's probably because the underworld operates on such a different set of rules than those that govern the lives of the average American. Yet the stories of graft and murder that come out of this other world still occur in the same cities and spaces where law-bidding folks lead their own boring, mundane existences. The environments are familiar, but the situations are foreign enough that they might as well be happening in another country- or another dimension, for that matter.
It's strangely exciting to think that there is always the possibility of something transpiring in plain sight, but just outside of your awareness and field of view. It is the adrenaline rush brought on by this intrigue that keeps people coming back to these stories for a mostly harmless thrill. Even when based on true events, these stories will always remain somewhat alien for most, and good works of crime fiction (or true crime) are good at making the most of their audience's distance from the events they describe- bringing them close enough to feel threatened, but not to the point where they are in any real danger.
But what if you were to take that final step? What if you could get as close to a criminal as possible? I am talking about literally sitting inside their head and seeing through their eyes. Would their actions become any more intelligible? Rational? Sympathetic? New York's Turbo World have a lot to say on this topic, although their conclusions are far more bizarre and banal than I think even the most jaded crime aficionado is prepared to reckon with. Their debut My Challenger is less The Godfather and more of a particularly bleak episode of The Sopranos... if it were directed by the members of Styx. Did I mention that it is a progressive rock album? Well, there is your segue.
Conceived as a concept album in collaboration between Stephen Cooper of Clouds Become Your Hands and Caroline Bennett of Stice, My Challenger loosely recounts the confessions of an infamous mob killer named Max Kurschner (better known by his nom de plumb, Joey the Hitman) gleaned from a filmed 1973 interview with talk show host David Susskind. The lyrics of the album are inspired by unimpeachable crime anecdotes set to stripped-down, funky, even tropical synth patterns and progy motifs that illustrate how the essential absurdity of life drips through and saturates even the most depraved and secretive lamina of the world.
It's very fitting that many of the synth interludes (especially on tracks like "Greek Vase") feel like transition pieces for commercial or industrial instructional videos from the '70s, as the business-like manner in which the subject matter of drug dealing and murder is presented feels noticeably desaturated and lacking in moral content. The only thing grisly about these tales are their disassociative dedication to a twisted sense of proceduralism and professionalism.
Through this juxtaposition of methodical polish and appalling accounts of commonplace villainy, you arrive at the sense that the unforgivable crimes being depicted are just the mundane minutia and bare facts of a man's livelihood, and the placid and studied smoothness of the performances only make the incredible preposterous of this person's reality all the more apparent. Thankfully the vacillations in tones, textures, and pitch do, in fact, make for a pleasant gloss when applied, lending the project a critical veneer of levity- something that it desperately needs, or else the mere fact of listening to the details of the price negotiation phase of a contract-killing would be both too tedious and horrifying to bare.
Truthfully and thankfully, my anxiety is eased with shocked amusement at key inflection points throughout the album due to the band's subtle, dry sense of timing and warped wit. Like on the title track, where Caroline orates in a heavenly tone, "I don't think it's wrong to smuggle cheap dope" while unspoiling a yarn about running drugs and bribing cops. Similarly amusing is the experience of waltzing through the regal melodies that twirl through and enliven "Neck's Friend," while soaking in the song's lyrics, all of which depict the longitude and latitude of a firm moral crossroads from which the narrator departs on a long and unapologetically dark path.
Of what Turbo World has laid out for us here, there are many familiar and engaging points of reference, like the opener "20k," which sounds the most like Caroline's other band Stice, while "Cards" could pass for a Cloud Becomes Your Hand take on a Richard Harris penned musing, and "Mambo 62" which resembles one of those near parodic homages to '60s feel-good standards that the Residents used to churn out during the '80s (with a breezy ocean-side vibe no less!). The charm of these compositions could almost make you forget that these songs are primarily about the quiet, living barbarity that teems in a parrel strata to your own lived experience, but which makes up the quotidian particulars of how others earn their bread. Trust me, you will be grooving too much to dwell on the implications (hopefully).
I'm of the opinion that My Challenger is easy to appreciate for its skill and deft handling of subject and sound form. I'm also entirely certain that it is a completely insane piece of art- a fact that does not in any way diminish its unique vision- deranged as it might be. Truly, it's the unhinged aspects that make me appreciate it even more.
