Yeah, you read that correctly. FBI Special Agent Fox Mulder is singin’ the blues.
With a voice that has been recently described by music critics as “serviceable” and “decent,” David Duchovny apparently bombed a choir audition as a kid. He never even played a guitar until a few years ago, and he’s hardly sung a note for decades (there weren’t too many musical numbers in the X-Files, although a Seth MacFarlane remake would change that). He admits that during the first day of recording, he found himself on the floor, yelling that it was all a mistake.
Duchovny is far from the first actor-turned-singer-songwriter. Steve Martin has proven to be as good a banjo player as he is a comedian, actor, or director, which is saying a lot. And holy shit, Jeff Bridges! That voice was made for country. He blew millions of minds with “Crazy Heart.” Then there’s Jack Black, whose training was in musical theatre at Julliard and who is just as funny singing as he is acting. Other superstars, such as Madonna and Cher, have also managed dual careers. To our relief, Mark Wahlberg gave up his (allegedly) Funky Bunch, only to become a surprisingly good actor.
On this similar end of the scale, we find Billy Bob Thornton’s lukewarm rockabilly band, The Boxmasters. Jared Leto does … something. Zooey Deschanel does a thing. Kevin Costner, Don Johnson, Russell Crowe (yikes), and even Keanu Reeves (wince) have mistakenly wandered into recording studios. For Pete’s sake, even William Shatner is putting stuff out there. More recently, Miley Cyrus’s transition from irritating Disney protégé to full-blown obnoxious social misfit has redefined tactlessness to previously unimagined extremes and will likely keep intelligent life from contacting our planet for centuries. Some have succeeded and some have not, but from J Lo to Will Smith, droves of actors have lost their way, blinded by their own glory and a choir of yes-men and financed by their stage and screen successes—much to the annoyance of legitimate musicians struggling to be heard.
Enter the man most commonly known as Agent Mulder, or “that dude who couldn’t keep it in his pants” in “Californication.” He doesn’t appear to harbor any illusions of grandeur; on the contrary, this is a dude whose first song to learn was The Flaming Lips’ “Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots.” Compare that to a young, head-in-the-clouds Kurt Cobain who initially taught himself “Stairway to Heaven.”
As such, Duchovny—already established as an actor, producer, director, and even novelist—has nothing to prove, nothing to lose, and nothing to win. He’s publicly admitted that he’ll never be one of the Three Tenors, nor will he ever win American Idol. Being an artist—rather than a mere capitalist or attention whore—he simply wants to express himself and to be heard.
Few people realize that Duchovny is both a Princeton and a Yale graduate, holding a bachelor’s and master’s degree in English literature. So when divorce struck, he predictable turned to the pen for solace. What came next was a flood of poetry that seemed like it could be lyrics. Like any heartbroken English major, he wrote his lyrics and fiddled around with his guitar at home, and that was that.
It was meeting Brad Davidson of ThinkSay Records that really got things moving toward publication. Duchovny is backed by Berklee graduate and producer Colin Lee on keys (as well as Berklee grad band Weather). When Lee first heard the songs, he remarked that one in particular needed a bridge. Duchovny’s charmingly replied, “What’s a bridge?” So it’s apparent on this recording that if it sounds good, Lee and Weather are to thank. It does, and they are: the drums are always tasteful, and the occasional guitar solos—while arguably short of being the perfect right-note-at-the-right-time statements soloists strive for—are golden enough to push the songs from point A to point B without losing any momentum. Whatever these dudes got paid for this session, they at least get to put “recorded an album with David Duchovny” on their resumes.
In a statement, Duchovny stated, “I feel these songs represent the truest expression that I’ve ever been able to achieve and I look forward to sharing it with everyone.” He offers “Hell or Highwater” with refreshing sincerity and no pretense, which is wise because it is not exactly solid gold. But it’s not a clunker either. In a sense, it’s a novelty; in another sense, it’s just another medium of expression for a fairly talented guy. If nothing else, it’s an act of bravery. He’s not God’s gift to lyricists, but he’s not competing with much in 2015.His already sullen, introverted demeanor lends itself well to the folky, broken-hearted songs, doing them at least some justice. His band, however, is pretty fantastic.
“Let It Rain” opens with acoustic guitar, and we soon hear Duchovny’s relatively naked voice, which turns out to be quite deep and gravelly, with Jeff Tweedy’s (of Wilco) same deadpan, half-spoken inflection. Lyrically, it’s fairly straightforward, particularly when the listener knows the backstory (a divorce from Tea Leoni). His vocals are comfortably on-pitch, more so than a lot of contemporary “recording artists” can manage, and—most importantly—he’s sincere.
Soon after the drums break through a miasma of distortion, it becomes clear that “3000” is an anti-war song. Duchovny’s vocals are more stilted and forced on this one, suggesting that rocking out isn’t really what Ivy League boys are groomed for. “Stars” lies lower to the ground, like a soft country western ballad. He has the same hesitation as Bob Dylan, but his voice has the lower, rougher texture of Dylan’s son, Jakob.
The title song feels similar to “Stars,” if a bit closer to Americana, and Duchovny delivers his first truly solid line: “A man of words is a man of lies.” However, he follows it with some mangled imagery: “And I can’t turn this shitstorm red to some / Rainbow sunshower of holy red wine.” Maybe it’s not Wordsworth or Tennyson, but at least the genuine heartbreak comes through.
“The Things” is slow-burning, Tom Petty-style rock, almost like “Last Dance With Mary Jane” at two-thirds the speed. Again, Duchovny’s voice is most endearing when it seems like he’s trying to hide it rather than show it off, breaking a little at times and at others falling off of notes at the ends of lines.
The second song about rain, “The Rain Song” (someone is sad) is upbeat but retains that relative penchant for darkness that Duchovny not only benefited from in the X-Files but has already firmly established as a stylistic trend in his music. “Unsaid Undone” is a litany of paradoxes, like “Powerlessness / my only power.” He touches briefly on psychology and therapists with the line, “Mediocrity / for hourly fees” (which he says is the only moment in the album when he’s truly angry).
“Lately It’s Always December” might be a low point or a high one. The arrangement is so good that it’s hard to imagine a better recorded and produced version of this song. Really, the only improvement to be made is getting someone else to sing it. Duchovny doesn’t suck, but Weather and Lee are back there really making art behind Duchovny’s relatively so-so singing.
Reaching back toward Johnny Cash territory, but crossing Eddie Vedder and Ryan Adams along the way, “Another Year” features prominent backing vocals as well as a driving train beat over a Hammond organ. The verses are okay, but the choruses and refrains are great: Duchovny doesn’t exactly soar, but he’s able to lift his voice confidently enough to carry this song out of the cold caves into which he otherwise so easily settles.
“Passenger” features a lame twist on the cliché, “Objects in the mirror / Are farther than they appear,” a low-hanging lyrical fruit that must have been too irresistible to refuse. There are a few others, but attempting to pick out every cliché or hackneyed verse in the album would warrant an article unto itself. At one point, Duchovny attempts a melisma that he would have been wise to shy away from.
The penultimate track, “When the Time Comes,” manages—like the first track—to expose Duchovny’s voice completely, laying bare its grainy, velvety feel. But he doesn’t control it well, so when he sings casually enough, it works. Like a young Dirk Diggler, Duchovny may have an anatomical gift, but it seems that he’s still learning how to use it.
“Positively Madison Avenue” engages in some interesting storytelling that affords Duchovny opportunities to mention fun stuff like car salesmen, following Gandhi on Twitter, Leonard Cohen, and protein shakes. It’s a decent social critique, and Duchovny even has the cojones to call out Bob Dylan for allowing his music to be used for advertisements. It’s not mean spirited, though. He told Rolling Stone magazine (named after what? A Dylan song?) that “If I were him, I wouldn’t give a shit what I think,” continuing that “I’m happy he can make money. I think he can do whatever the fuck he pleases, and he’s aces with me forever.” You’d think that the last song would be Duchovny’s big exit, but—ever the humble introvert—he excuses himself completely for the last minute or two while Lee and Weather rock it out.
Look, there’s nothing wrong with hobbyist recording. Connan Mockasin’s life-changing “Forever Dolphin Love” was recorded in his house at the behest of his “mum.” He never even thought anyone would hear it. Fortunately for us, someone did. Playing the lottery for fun is harmless, but playing it out of desperation for success is dangerous—and so it is in the arts. It’s only when people try to pass off their upper-class ego trips as art and foist them upon the public that there’s a problem. As David Duchovny has presented “Hell or Highwater” with so little pomp or fanfare and instead with so much honesty, humility, and even self-deprecation, and given such a stellar and polished performance by his studio musicians, it’s easy to forgive its shortcomings and relish its charm.
