Album Review

Ben Folds has built his career on confounding expectations. With his unimpeachable piano chops, amazing melodic sense, and soulful voice, he seemed like the natural heir to Elton John and Billy Joel as a chart-topping piano balladeer. But Folds never chose that path, deciding instead to indulge his wicked sense of humor and refusing to present a song packaged neatly for radio consumption. Even when he unleashes a gorgeous ballad, it’s often in the service of subject matter atypical for a pop song (like “Fred Jones, Part II” from Rockin’ The Suburbs, which told the tale of an office drone being forced into retirement.)

With his third solo release, Way To Normal, Folds once again throws a curve ball at his listeners. Considering that he recently finalized a divorce, and with the self-help connotations of the album title, you might go in expecting an introspective, autobiographical dissection of his marital woes. Instead, Folds puts forth the most raucous album of his career, reveling in sophomoric humor while he bangs the piano with demented glee.

Take the album opener, “Hiroshima (B B B Benny Hit His Head”). The subtitle isn’t the only allusion to Sir Elton’s “Benny and The Jets,” as Folds also mimics the song’s staccato piano chords and faux-live background while telling the true story about how he came on stage for a concert in the titular city, tripped and bashed his head open, and then managed to continue playing. Telling a tale of personal embarrassment with all the trappings of a rock anthem is just typical of Folds’ ironic view of stardom.

Save a few clunkers on the second half of the album, the up-tempo numbers are all breathlessly catchy, from the ruthless dissection of the rich but bored in “The Frown Song,” to his advice for a love-blind sap in “Brainwascht.” Folds insistence on profanity on nearly every single song is a bit annoying, especially from a guy who pointed out the pointlessness of such tough-talk in “Rockin’ The Suburbs,” his hilarious skewering of the rap-metal genre from his first solo effort.

When he does address relationships, he keeps the emphasis on the funny stuff. “Bitch Went Nuts” might be misconstrued as misogyny, but you can tell that Folds isn’t halfway serious about his basketball-stabbing, photo-shopping protagonist. Imagining a whole army of her “embittered drones” at his door burning his effigy, Folds is clearly laughing his way through his pain.

Even when he gets serious, he can still pull the rug out. “Cologne,” with his piano cascading around mournful strings, clearly starts off looking like a reference to his failed marriage, with the profoundly sad chorus, “4,3,2,1/I’m letting you go.” Then Folds seems to break off the tale when, out of nowhere, he recounts the story of the NASA astronaut who made a cross-country trip, wearing diapers, to kill her rival for her lover’s affections. But it quickly becomes clear that the bizarre news item is something he would normally be talking about with his lost love in person, rather than in a song, and her absence hits him hard: “Such a painful trip/To find out this is it.”

It’s also good to know that Folds still has a way with classic AM-radio melodies, which he demonstrates on “You Don’t Know Me,” a nifty duet with Regina Spektor. And he can still put away childish jokes when he looks outside of himself for inspiration, as on the lovely closer “Kylie From Connecticut,” a heartbreaker about a neglected wife who lies to herself about her husband’s infidelity until it slaps her in the face.

So let’s not give Folds too much of a hard time about his wise-guy nature. It’s always refreshingly authentic, and it also makes us appreciate it that much more when he reins it in. And let’s hope that he never really finds his way to “Normal;” we’ve got enough artists who fit that description.

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