The Dead Deer at the bottom of the hill

Every city in America has its musical secrets—they’re known, but never spoken of. One of
Portland’s is Grouper, a one-woman show that is much more accomplished than your average listener might think, especially if she or he isn’t in on the secret.

The secret, for lack of a better term—because it deserves to be shared—is Liz Harris, who has been releasing records under the Grouper moniker for seven years. From such humble roots as the lowly CD-R, Harris now has exactly 20 releases under her belt, including this year’s b-side collection, The Man Who Died In His Boat.

And while the releases have seen only slight growth from her, the all-too-familiar adage “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” has special meaning to Harris. All the while, her act wasn’t “broke,” it was careening across the Internet and winding up on scads of top-10 lists year after year.

In 2013, did Harris finally fix what wasn’t broken in the Grouper universe? The answer is, troublingly, yes. The machine is laid bare, and Harris’ proverbial tools are cluttering up the workspace, stripping screws that hold Grouper together, all while woefully neglecting its natural fluidity.

Grouper’s wax has always been mostly electronic with acoustic guitar rippling through the noisy fog, but on recent full-lengths the instrumental balance is shifting. The results are what matters, though, and I am sad to report that Grouper’s songwriting ability has nearly died along with the titular man in the boat.

To be fair, the album is a collection of b-sides to the stellar 2008 LP Dragging a Dead Deer Up a Hill that were held off until now. To fans clamoring for new material, the record sounds frustrating.

And the most frustrating aspect of this record is that there’s nothing smooth about the transition into full-on singer-songwriter jam sessions.

Some tracks sound like new-old Grouper joints, while others sound like Jewel in an echo chamber. The album begins with a diving board jump into a placid lagoon of reverb waiting below—also known as any other Grouper record except for this one. The cut, simply titled “6,” features peaking microphone work and lush, powerful drones.

Effectively, the cut starts at bargain-basement production value before hoisting a grappling hook to the upper echelon of studio work, bypassing all middle ground in the process. Everything in the album’s opener sounds suited for your old Sanyo boombox or a high-end McIntosh tube rig.

Disappointingly, what should serve as an accelerant to Man Who Died’s ignition ends up being a fizzle and brief puff of sulphuric vapor. The next few tracks on the album all sound boring. I’m not sure there is any amount of flowery review-fodder that can spruce up that sentiment.

Grouper’s old records, especially Dragging a Dead Deer Up a Hill, managed to create dynamic rivers of tension inside reverberated drones, and ethereal electric pianos and stringed instruments. Man Who Died possesses none of these characteristics.

Grouper’s prior work is primal, cerebral-cluttering madness that makes us question what we know to be music and structure.

However, with this collection of b-sides, it sure gets back to basics: one person, one guitar, one microphone and one gigantic, empty room. In a way, this is as bare-bones as any musician can get. But in Grouper’s case, it seems lazy, especially when the record is peppered with hints of what devout fans craved after Dead Deer, or even A I A, Grouper’s last, somewhat traditional, full-length/double album.

Tracks six through eight all sound like a good Grouper EP—if the rest of the tracks on Man Who Died were b-b-sides, able to be downloaded at the end if the user wished.

Some tracks are nearly unbearable, with “Cloud in Places” arguably the laziest cut on the album. Others stick to this formula but aren’t completely P.U.-worthy, like the title track and the closer, “Living Room.”

The titular song features a low, rumbling drone that overpowers the omnipresent acoustic strumming in a very pleasing way; the listener almost ends up rooting for the drone to emerge victorious over the trusty acoustic guitar. And the acoustic guitar in the title track is quite reconcilable, considering how it oozes under the door of the previous track, the immaculate “Vanishing Point.”

The aforementioned track is easily one of the most chilling that Grouper has ever released: a rumbling drone jockeys for mastering space with a severely dilapidated electric piano steeped
in delay.

The cut is so jarring that the listener feels an impending sense of uneasiness: You want the track to be over because something just isn’t right—yet you know that when it is over, more Tegan and Sara outtakes are behind the exit door. Though I’m sure it isn’t the artist’s intention, it’s definitely the outcome.

Thankfully, not every acoustic-heavy track is a chore to get through. The last track, “Living Room,” is easily the most inspired, mostly unplugged effort on Man Who Died and, coincidentally, the shortest. Harris’ melancholy drips from the cut and the playing is equally inspired.

The ending of the track (and, thus, the record) is very abrupt, almost as if Harris knows the exact moment to pull the plug and leave the tipping point unreached.

It’s admirable that Harris chose to inject a human element into the normal sea of effects, but the problem is that she’s spent the bulk of her Grouper career crafting a cocktail of mystery and routine. There isn’t any room for these types of dramatic twists in the Grouper canon.

Perhaps if this direction were hinted at well before her 20th release the listener wouldn’t become lost so quickly. I realize that Man Who Died is essentially an outtakes collection, but by trying to introduce a more human feel into the storyline, Man Who Died sounds like any number of coffee shop performers playing through a giant, coiled spring.

And, trust me, Portland has enough of those.