Indigo Child by Simeon Flick

San Diego solo artist Simeon Flick’s second album was originally intended to be his first, as it also would have been for the then nascent but now long since defunct Strate Sound where it was recorded, but incongruent timetables and Flick’s imminent inaugural singer-songwriter tour of the summer of 2003 pushed Indigo Child’s completion and release to the following year in favor of the more expedient and apropos Soliloquy. Indigo Child makes more sense as the subsequent album in that light, with its tangible expansion on Soliloquy’s sparse instrumentation and the resulting realization of more extravagant sonic ambitions.

Flick was essentially a clone of the late, great Jeff Buckley when he first arrived in Pacific Beach in early 2001, and one can hear a strong “Grace” influence on the lead-off track––“Round In Circles”––in its 6/8 groove, elaborately orchestrated vocals and the laryngeal histrionics of its two bridges, and intricate harmonic and melodic interplay of its lavish acoustic and electric guitars and fretless bass parts. The song’s lyrics reveal a masculine shame but also an innate, empathic confidence, depicting an introvert’s pursuit and attempted romantic sequestration of an extrovert lost in their escapist social proclivities (“You run around / In circles that confound me / Hiding, biding / Underneath social skirts / Too bad I’m a man / But oh, the things I can show you / Creeping as you’re sleeping / In one of my T-shirts”).

A feeling of higher-power-recognizing unworthiness pervades the subsequent “Good Graces,” and continues the Buckley-leaning bent, though unlike the untimely deceased influence, Flick plays most of the instruments on this album himself (including bass and drums, guest percussionist David Cates notwithstanding on this cut), has a richer, fuller vocal tone, and authors more poignant lyrics.

The title track is a pleasantly plaintive instrumental built on a latin-jazz-inflected nylon string guitar foundation and featuring Flick’s nimbly melodic electric leads, the mix fading in and out of existence just as a human life does before abruptly exploding into the restlessly resentful rollercoaster kiss-off, “Do It And Leave.”

“Thesedays” bears the distinction of being one of only two songs in Flick’s entire oeuvre to receive an official video treatment (the other is “Money Don’t Make The Man” from the following album, Reactive Soul), and lyrically finds him observing society from the outside, scratching his head and involuntarily feeling every ounce of incoming pathos nonetheless. Drummer Cates returns for this and the following track, “Surrender Song,” which attempts to encapsulate the typical long-term relationship arc––endorphin-soaked early phase, mid-phase separation, joyous ever-after reunion––in its he-said-she-said lyric and grand, sung-from-the-mountaintop chorus.

As if Flick’s astounding versatility wasn’t already on ample display, he next presents a full-fledged classical guitar solo that dovetails nicely with the songs on either side of it and reveals a deeper pedagogy in its advanced polyphonic techniques and self-composed inventiveness. “Contemplation No. 3: River,” which would be rerecorded and finally included with its two companions on 2023’s Opus One, oozes melody and mood, and offers an onomatopoetic journey in three-part miniature.

Flick sounds most at home and like the authentic artistic self he would eventually excavate on the African-influenced, R & B vocal hat-tipping, Greek god-referencing, kinetically grooving “Omegajam.” The lyric features a brilliant first-person narrative from Zeus as he poetically registers the trademark-infringed complaints of his fellow gods and demigods and deliberates about whether or not to spare flawed humanity from destruction (spoiler alert: he ultimately sides with his fellow gods).

“Can’t Wait ‘Til I Die” is a plucky 1920’s throwback with upright bass (played with swinging brio by twin brother Nathaniel), wire-brush drums, acoustic guitar, and even a clarinet solo (by Craig Richards), and disclaimer lyrics that only discuss what the narrator isn’t trying to convey in the title, leaving the listener to wrestle with the rest via their own interpretation.

“Can’t Wait ‘Til I Die” is the last official song of the album, though the original CD version includes an unofficial, or “secret” track––a trend which many artists embraced during the 70-minutes-per CD age––that winds through a silent forest leaving a breadcrumb trail of sporadic sonic Easter eggs before arriving at the reggae-tinged “Ingenue,” which is featured here as a bonus song sans the meaningful-only-to-the-artist, head-scratching, impatience-generating frills.

Indigo Child may not be the first or best record in Simeon Flick’s discography, but neither is it the worst. It sets the high-standard precedent for growth as the second opus in an illustrious independent arc that now spans two decades and a baker’s dozen stand-alone albums that demarcate an undeniable evolution in its striving to find and fully harness Flick’s true artistic identity.

Simeon Flick is an independent San Diego-based heritage artist who specializes in Alternative R&B pop-rock music but dabbles in classical guitar on the side. His albums exhibit his prodigious, multi-instrumental musicality and poetic, confrontational, erudite, often humorous lyrics sung through his soulful vintage tenor. He owns and operates Blue Chair Studio in La Mesa, CA.

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