by Chris Coplan (@CCoplan)
When I was in my early teens, a friend brought me to a midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show (Shoutout to Christown Mall and Abe Bloom, who has since become an actual veterinary doctor). At one point in the show, I got dragged on stage for a half-hearted lap dance from a (surprisingly spot-on) Rocky in a gold Speedo. Not only was that my first homoerotic experience, but it taught me a valuable lesson about the world: there's so many kinds of people in the world, and they're beautiful and wild and deserving of our respect and attention.
I think about that moment -- that idea of being confronted with people and ideas that will forever alter your brainpan -- when I listened to Shilpa Ray's latest album, Portrait of A Lady. The twelve track record is described as the punk dynamo's "most searing and personal album to date," and was penned "in the wake of the #metoo movement and the weathering years of the Trump Administration" as a means for Ray to work out years of personal abuse. Like my run in with Rocky, it'll shake you to your core with glamor and violence in equal measure.
Unlike Rocky’s shimmy, Ray's got true range, and each of her "approaches" work to varying degrees. On one end of the spectrum, there's "Manic Pixie Dream Cunt," a rollicking punk rock anthem that you can practically imagine Ray scream-singing while riding a rocket-powered dragster. Or, the similarly confrontational "Male Feminist," which both dresses down faux progressive dudes while referencing "Love Is Strange" by Mickey & Sylvia. In this speed, Ray feels effective enough; the gimmicks are funny without ever detracting from the very serious subject matter. It's a great speed for Ray's sensibilities and wit -- bashing people with hard truths while tickling their funny bones and dazzling their pea-sized brains.
But the LP's best efforts are when Ray comes off a tad more understated. "Straight Man's Dream," for instance, feels like a deeply personal, hugely moving moment for Ray to tackle her own experiences and address issues of male fragility -- and doing so in an utterly breathtaking performance where she's a profound star of tragic beauty and deep truth. The same goes for "Cry for the Cameras," as Ray once more delivers a startlingly gorgeous performance, like some snarling version of a '50s pop songstress, balancing the personal and the political with pure excellence. The old-school influences shine brightest on these tracks, and through that lens of the-antiquated-meets-the revolutionary, Ray delivers her truth with a purity and prowess. It's the difference between bashing someone over the head with a sledgehammer and sliding a blade between their ribs.
Is one approach "better" than the other? Not particularly. You'll likely develop your own preference or overall favorites. The rest of the album often tries to marry these two "sides." "Same Sociopath" balances the earnestness of a folk song with a big theatrical number (like those from Rocky Horror!) for a song with a clear gimmick that’s still genuinely engaging. Or, "Two Faced Lovers" and "No," both which may be just experimental musical tidbits but each have much of the same effect (i.e, a Kansas City shuffle of gimmickry and great musicianship). In one sense, maybe these tracks feel more robust for being well-rounded, and that they're capable of carrying and sustaining the record and Ray's larger narrative mission. But they just don't have as much oomph and dazzle as other offerings, and it's those extreme moments that grab you by the face and enter the brain via your pores.
There's a reason "Heteronormative Horseshit Blues" is one of the LP's clear standouts: you can almost feel Ray propping herself up to deliver a genius moment of true expression, and how this construct made very well fade at any moment. It's a Broadway-esque moment, and the best instance of the mix of theatrically and songwriting at the record's core. Whatever the vehicle of choice -- angry anthem or moody ballad -- Ray lets these often singular moments live and explode in glorious fashion, and in those instances we see the true scope of the record. It’s often scary, but equally thrilling, and feels like the moments we ultimately learn the most. The other tracks aren’t "filler," per say, but they round out the show with some air of stability.
After a few listens, I got to thinking about the nature of personal revelations. For better and infinitely worse, our society shares everything online, and Ray doesn’t strike me as someone who is afraid to be as direct as possible. So, in that sense, she’s a great representative for this moment that we’re in, where we shimmy and shake about how awful things are. Unlike the rest of us, Ray is a master of controlling the ebb and flow of feelings and information. She’s venomous one moment, and more subdued the next. By embracing and/or discarding these "roles" accordingly, she makes powerful art that both confronts and inspires. Some moments are more engaging than others, but the end product feels the same: a journal entry broadcast worldwide to make us understand just how entwined the personal and the political truly are.
I can’t say if Ray will wake anyone up with this record, but that likelihood is even stronger than her vocal range. She has given people a means to explore sexism, toxic masculinity, modern feminism, and societal violence in a way that feels titillating without ever feeling needlessly comforting or non-confrontational to appease someone else. It’s criticism and commentary as a punk rock musical, and not even Dr. Frank-N-Furter themself could ever do it better.