My reference last week to Los Angeles producer Mitchell Froom reminded me of a particular favorite record of mine that bears his finest touch: his supervision of the gorgeously atmospheric and heartbreaking Mercury (1993) from the San Francisco collective American Music Club. Many know of AMC as the former companions in gloom of vocalist/guitarist Mark Eitzel, a man who divides his time between pouring his soul out whenever a microphone is around and becoming a permanent fixture on a barstool somewhere. He also happens to be arguably the finest songwriter of his generation, a rare, uncompromising musician who isn’t afraid of naked honesty or, to quote a specific incident, a cathartic release of bottled emotions in front of a club full of hundreds of shocked concertgoers. The man can hold his own, however: I saw a solo Eitzel performance a few years ago where he ripped into a heckler with such wit and ferocity that the disruptive fellow, completely mortified, shamefully ran out of the theater with his tail between his legs.

Shortly after moving to the Bay City from Ohio, Eitzel formed American Music Club in 1983 with guitarist Vudi and bassist Danny Pearson, who would remain with him throughout the various lineup changes that would ensue over the next decade. After releasing a handful of critically acclaimed but publicly ignored albums in the ’80s, the band recruited multi-instrumentalist Bruce Kaphan and drummer Tim Mooney, signed to a major label, and released their masterwork, Mercury, in March of ‘93. The general consensus over the years has oddly gravitated toward Everclear (1991) as the band’s definitive statement, but this author vehemently disagrees; Mercury’s predecessor is a half-assed collection of failed torch songs, sloppy musicianship (remember, Kaphan and Mooney had yet to join), and one of the worst production jobs I’ve ever heard committed to tape.

Mercury is one of those albums whose mood creates the disposition of limited listenability. Hearing Mercury in the sobriety of sunny daylight renders it useless; this is a record to be absorbed on a raw, miserable rainy day, or to soundtrack a quiet evening when drinking oneself into a coma is the primary objective. Opening with the alcohol-soaked, clinically depressing lament “Gratitude Walks,” the album welters in a beautiful, bottomless pit of despair during the course of its 50 minutes, hardly pausing for a breath of fresh air. Similar to his work on Suzanne Vega’s 99.9F° (1992), Froom’s production is simply marvelous, encompassing such a spectrum of dynamics from the crisp fingertip scrapes on the strings of Eitzel’s acoustic to an echoed, expansive tidal wave of sound from the band.

“I’ve Been a Mess” is as quintessential American Music Club as it gets, and features some of the finest lyrics of Eitzel’s career. Every musical element here falls into place with breathtaking precision: Eitzel’s initmate and weary voice, Pearson’s walking bassline during the chorus, the cavernous reverb on the drums, Kaphan’s weeping pedal steel touches, and a gloriously noisy but tasteful solo from Vudi. The third verse has Eitzel disarmingly pleading:

Your beauty is just a slap in the face.
It’s gonna bring me back to life, back to another sky that’s blue.
It’s gonna turn me into another great American zombie.
So hungry for you.

“I’ve Been a Mess” – American Music Club 4:27 (Mercury, Reprise 1993)

The theme of travel is an undercurrent that swims through the record and is explored directly on “Challenger,” which shows the band at its loudest and most unharnessed. Vudi’s guitar work, in particular, is electrifying: a chaotic clashing of open chords during the verse, a panned, freight train-like roar at the chorus, and a solo that would make Lee Ranaldo blush. Eitzel chooses a “back seat over the wing” of the plane to take in the view of Detroit, periodically asking the friendly stewardess to serve him “little bottles of mercury.”

“Challenger” – American Music Club 3:00 (Mercury, Reprise 1993)

“Apology for an Accident” finds Eitzel desperately attempting to repair a broken relationship to no avail over a swinging 6/8 rhythm and some classy piano work from Kaphan. Loathing self-pity has always been Eitzel’s drink of choice, and “Apology” conveys his pain with little subtlety, offering lines like:

Well I’ve been praying a lot lately; it’s because I no longer have a TV.
Just a flourescent hangover to light the way.

And of course my favorite:

I’m an expert in all things that nature abhors.
Your look of disgust when I touched your skin.

The drinks are on me, Mark.

“Apology for an Accident” – American Music Club 4:00 (Mercury, Reprise 1993)

After Mercury, the group released their fine swan song San Francisco (1994) before disbanding in resigned frustration. Eitzel continued to release a string of remarkable solo albums for the remainder of the ’90s, and in 2003 the group reconvened to record Love Songs for Patriots (2004), undoubtedly one of the highlights of the year, and probably the best place to start when exploring their catalog. Although the tough-to-find Engine (1987) and California (1988) are worth tracking down, Mercury still remains their finest moment; I can’t think of another record that has aged more gracefully.