by David Wilikofsky
Ben Varian latest album ends with a startling assertion: there is no Ben Varian. “Good news / There is no Ben Varian / Good news / There is no Ben Varian’s hair / Good news / There is no Ben Varian’s discography page” the person I assumed to be Ben Varian sings. It’s a surprising and funny left turn that perfectly encapsulates the charms of Varian’s music. One Hundred Breakfasts With The Book is a chameleonic pop album, at turns beguiling, irreverent and beautiful. It’s music that illuminates the human condition without taking itself too seriously.
There’s a sonic restlessness to the record; it sounds like a trip down the radio dial, with Varian trying out everything from twangy country (“Goodbye Scoundrels”) and Beatles-esque psychedelia (“Spend Some Time (With Your Mind”)) to disco (“Teardrops”) and electro-funk (“I’m Listening”). Rather than cluttering the album, Varian uses these sonic templates to complement the stories in his lyrics. The disco moments in “Teardrops” soundtrack the narrator’s memories of a night of abandon. “After the show there’s boogie and trance / I face the music and I even dance / There’s music after the music and I can’t go home” he reminisces. The introspective message of “Spend Some Time (With Your Mind)” is enhanced by its slightly eerie and psychedelic backing track. Every note feels like it has a clear purpose.
But what really makes these songs shine is the writing. The specificity of Varian’s lyrics breathes life into his subjects. In “Jonie”, the titular septuagenarian sings Peter, Paul and Mary on the train and tries Doritos for the first time. “Period Chart” tells the story of a relationship from its inception. The couple spends days driving through Richmond and Berkeley in a Volvo and falling asleep early watching Long Island Medium. He finds the beauty in the mundane, turning the act of cooking into a dance on “I’m Listening”. Varian has a knack for honing in on these kinds of small details, ones that instantly sketch a picture or evoke a feeling in your mind.
Which brings us back to that final track. I’ve been mulling it over the last few days, and I don’t know that there’s any single correct interpretation of those closing minutes. At first I thought it was a cheeky moment of self-deprecation; Varian sings “there is no Ben Varian to make it incomplete” but there’s clearly nothing incomplete about anything Varian does here. He is an astute observer of the human condition, and these songs are thought out to the last note. Perhaps the sonic diversity Varian and his band provide on this album proves there is no single version of Ben Varian. Maybe it’s a statement on the fragility of life. Or maybe it’s just a dumb joke that I’m reading into way too much (I laugh every time I hear “There is no Ben Varian’s discography page“). I don’t really know, but that’s the magic of this album. Maybe it’s funny, maybe it’s deep, or maybe it’s not. When the music is this enjoyable, it doesn’t really matter.