Casey Scott

  • Casey Scott
  • Creep City (Signal/Capitol) 1993 

“If this song was a book, it would be fifteen pages long, have a fake gold binding and big, bold easy-reader type face.” And it would be on a third-rate Patti Smith tribute record, like almost everything else on Scott’s dismally derivative album. Underscoring the enormous influence Bob Dylan had on her idol, the New York-based singer/poet/guitarist (backed by three sidemen dubbed the Creeps) heists the prolix rush of tripped-out imagery from the one and the sneering, jut-jaw declamatory passion from the other, omitting only a musical personality of her own. The hopeless opening couplet of the spare, simple album — “The maggot king sits fast asleep upon his well-lit throne/The queen is in the parlor with her ear pressed to the phone” — says it all, but Scott puts a fine point on her solipsistic arrogance in “Ryan”: “the kind of girl that I was…a post-punk psycho from a whitebread nightmare…the kind of girl who messes with your head and you’d follow her anywhere.” Wrong.

[Ira Robbins]