New Zealand psych rocker Connan Mockasin’s collaborative album with his dad, Ade, has bad jokes, stream-of-consciousness poetry, and an odd, undeniable appeal.
It only took 40 minutes without a heartbeat to resuscitate the project Ade Hosford and his son had joked about making for years. The younger Hosford, who records as Connan Mockasin, has spent the past decade as a refreshingly strange psych-rock outsider with a distinct pop sensibility and seemingly little concern for public opinion of his work. In summer 2018, a few years after Ade’s near brush with death, father and son convened in Marfa, Texas to record their debut as a musical duo. Reunited with one of his earliest influences, Mockasin has made his most grounded and intimate record to date, and also his funniest.
It’s Just Wind may sound like a profound title, but it’s actually Ade’s evergreen defense of flatulence. The decision to name a collaborative coup de gras after a fart joke tracks when you recall that Connan once made a whole album of tongue-in-cheek sex music. But while Connan’s helium-powered humor can eventually wear on the nerves, Ade’s seven decades of experience have honed his deadpan delivery. On opener “The Wolf,” he serves up clunker after clunker: The little piggy tells the big bad wolf that his house is “made of dope”; the wolf threatens to “burn it to the ground and smoke it, you porky little shit.” Bad as these jokes are, they’re told with such grandfatherly enthusiasm that they still elicit a smile. Meanwhile, Connan’s blissed-out guitar tangles with John Carroll Kirby’s synth keys and beat machine, suffusing Ade’s silly sentiments with an almost mystical aura.
“Te Awanga,” a nod to the tiny beach town on New Zealand’s North Island where Connan grew up, pairs a breezy neo-soul guitar lick and tropical keys with sung stream-of-consciousness poetry. It’s rare to hear the untrained voice of an older man paired with such pretty instrumentation, and the effect is a bittersweet dissonance. In fleeting moments, Ade’s raw expressive power evokes the greats—Leonard Cohen without the low end, Scott Walker without the spine-tingling quaver, Peter Murphy unplugged and exorcised of his demons.
The record’s midsection is made up of solo Connan tracks that work to varying degrees. “What It Are” is a tightly wrapped nugget of fast-paced funk that lasts exactly as long as it should. The “Maggot Brain”-biting “Edge of Darkness” outstays its welcome, a reminder that not everyone can play like Eddie Hazel. It’s a relief, then, when Ade rejoins on “Marfa,” singing in an honest, regretful tone about shitty jobs, retirement, and gradual decay. It never feels like grousing until Connan jumps in halfway through, harshing the depressive vibe with a bad Thom Yorke impression. Despite this interruption, the song is soul-wrenching.
A few recurring ideas surface in It’s Just Wind’s father-son free-association game, none more prevalent than the image of a round peg in the square hole. First introduced in “Te Awanga” to describe the difficulty of moving to a “new land,” the metaphor receives a full 14 minutes near the record’s end. “Round Peg in a Square Hole” fumbles for footing for a minute or two, but the steady pulse of Kirby’s automated drumming helps it find direction. Slowly, the song gathers momentum and slippery new timbres, until Ade comes rumbling in like a battle-worn Bill Callahan to drive it home.
Square pegs, as we all know, do not fit into round holes; but what of a round peg in a square hole? The significance of the words hangs just out of reach as the record comes to a close with the squirmy stops and starts of “Stuck” and the quiet, spacey ballad “Clifton.” Maybe they’re thinking of a drifter in a new town, or a father alienated from his son, or a romantic love that’s hopelessly run its course. Or maybe it’s just another thinly veiled sex joke.
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