Learning to Love Regina Spektor: A Review of Begin to Hope
by Meghan Purvis

3.5 Beatles*

I tried really, really hard to hate Regina Spektor. I was good at it for a while, too–if we count “conspicuous ignoring” as a valid expression of hatred, like that middle-distance glare you dream of adopting around certain folks at your next high school reunion. And what was the reason for this hatred? The fact that, among certain circles, Regina Spektor has been the reigning arty-street-cred password for a while now. And if, like me, you are friends with many people in those circles, you can only take so many MySpace bulletins about someone’s new favorite band (translation: me = COOLER THAN YOUX0R!!!1!!) before you throw your hands up, unplug your headphones and start sneering whenever certain names are mentioned.

If you are like me in this regard, then I regret to inform you that you’re being really fucking stupid. (If you’re especially like me, you should have learned your lesson with The Strokes, young lady, but that’s neither here nor there.) We shall cover this in more depth later.

For now, the facts: Regina Spektor is one of several artists, almost all coming out of New York’s East Village, to be labeled “anti-folk”–but with Spektor, expect a much more cabaret-y feel than the poster girl for anti-folk, Ani DiFranco. Spektor comes from a musical background and studied at the Manhattan School of Music, and it shows in her music–both in the arrangement (whether on piano or, particularly on this album, with other instruments) of the music and in the careful control underlying her singing voice. Her first big-label release (two other full-length albums, 11:11 and Songs, were self-released), Soviet Kitsch was a surprise hit in 2001, and Begin to Hope, the album that is like sweet, sweet illegal narcotics to my mp3 player, comes out June 13th.

So what changed my mind? An even more irritating personal detail than my habit of initially dismissing acts just for being popular: I fell in love to this album. I started seeing a boy who, through methods that I’m certain are entirely legal, already had Begin to Hope, and it’s been the soundtrack to much of the beginning of our relationship. One night, I finally asked, half-awake, “So who sings this?” Only to be told it was my arch-nemesis, the symbol of everything shitty about musical one-upmanship. But Christ, what a tune.

Tunes, rather. Begin to Hope is Spektor obviously feeling freer to experiment and to deviate from the formula (girl + piano + insightful lyrics = endless Tori Amos comparisons) that, up until now, has largely been her trademark. “Better,” the first single, has her going electric in a Dylanesque move that, while a little jarring (particularly the echo effect on her voice in certain moments of the refrain), works. “20 Years of Snow” begins with electronic arpeggios that evoke the Sugar Plum Fairy, switches to a jerkier, more menacing version on piano, then merges both techniques in an oddly compelling crescendo.

I bring up my personal history not because I’m an egotistical monster who can’t write a review without talking about herself (well, at least not purely because of that), but because I think it explains why I, finally, find Regina Spektor’s music so appealing. She writes lovely, complex pop songs with lyrics that appeal to secretly mushy misanthropes everywhere. She writes songs that are good enough to force you to let go. In “Fidelity,” my favorite track, she sings:

And suppose I never met you
Suppose we never fell in love
Suppose I never ever let you kiss me so sweet and so soft
Suppose I never ever saw you
Suppose we never ever called
Suppose I kept on singing love songs just to break my own fall

–and I should hate it. I should roll my eyes into my espresso, mutter something about clichés, and go back to Dirty Pretty Things. But I don’t. I hum along; I smile to myself; I hug the people I love a little tighter. And regardless of whether you share my propensities for both snobbery and sentimentality, I think you will too.

*Editors Note: To score albums or concert performances, LostWriters has adopted the Beatle System. The number of “Beatles” an artist receives correlates to the number of Beatles that would show up at a party hosted by the artist in question. The ratings are as follows:

1 Beatle: Ringo will come to your party because, hell, Ringo will go anywhere he’s actually invited. If an artist gets the dreaded “Half-Beatle,” Ringo will still show up to the party, but he’ll have sex with the lead singer’s spouse and possibly his or her children.
2 Beatles: Ringo will persuade Paul to join him at the band’s party by reminding Paul of the incriminating photos he still has from Paul's “I just want to dress like a wee girl phase.” If an artist receives 1.5 beatles, Paul will not be able to attend, but he will send a lovely fruit basket and several photos of himself. (Additional fees required for autographed photos.)
3 Beatles: Not only will Ringo and Paul come, but George Harrison will use his mystical powers to reincarnate himself from the dead just to attend this artist’s fete. If an artist receives 2.5 Beatles, George won’t be able to make it, but he’ll telepathically contact Ravi Shanker and ask him to go in his stead. For an extra fee, Ravi can teach the entire band how to play the sitar.
4 Beatles: You get the full quartet. This rating is reserved for works of true artistic genius, because it means Yoko has to let John out of that attic she’s been keeping him in all these years, and he’s going to be pretty surprised to find out there wasn’t a nuclear holocaust. If an artist receives 3.5 Beatles, Yoko will send Sean Lennon and two kilos of blow instead.
 
June 8, 2006