Sarah Silverman – We Are Miracles (ALBUM REVIEW)

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SarahSilverman_WeAreMiracles_1500Somewhere in the new millennium it became really cool to be both a stand-up comic and an indie darling. I’m guessing Sub Pop has a lot to do with that, since that seminal indie label pushed out comedy albums from indie stalwarts such as David Cross, Patton Oswalt, and Eugene Mirman. Sarah Silverman has the credentials of both an indie hipster and name-brand appeal (thanks in part to her bestseller, Bedwetter and her turn in a few well-known feature films) in her back pocket. No one is going to question her status; she’s edgy, crude, and often funny as hell. She’s crass at all the right times, seems immediately approachable (admit that you would love to hang with her), and doesn’t harp on gender roles or other tired tropes of comedy. Comedy is, at its core, a male-dominated field. But Silverman has balls and she’s not afraid to make uncomfortable jokes about them or to put them on display them for her audience.

We Are Miracles is a recording of her HBO Special of the same name. Recorded at The Largo in Los Angeles for a small group of fans, Silverman dials up her full-frontal brand of comedy for some mixed results. The usual easy targets are lined up on Miracles: pornography, Jews, sexual depravity (including a thematic discussion of rape jokes), and a little bit of family nostalgia thrown in for good measure. Silverman begins her set (via the recording which, I’m certain, has been trimmed down from the TV special) discussing her nighttime ritual of preparing for bed, complete with integrating porn into her downtime, and ends the set with a hackneyed song on acoustic guitar that makes liberal use of the word “cunt.” Which is to say, all of this sounds like pretty typical Silverman. As a listener, you know what you’re getting into when you hit the “play” button, and its a boundless leap away from her adorable Disney character, Vanellope Von Schweetz, in Wreck-It Ralph.

Silverman lands some hefty punchlines over the course of Miracles, some of which seem off-the-cuff and unplanned. “I had that thought in my head and I couldn’t be alone with it,” she tells the crowd (the “Largo 39,” as she refers to them). Sometimes the payoff comes in unexpected places, too. There’s an unseemly bit about widows of 9/11 giving great hand jobs and rape victims that won’t about a rape joke because they “are typically not complainers” that are simultaneously cringe-inducing and brutally funny. Silverman’s an innocent pied piper in an oversized cloak, leading her victims off the ledge of good taste. All the while her slackerish persona is adorable and misleading; she’s only out to knife you in the back once you get comfortable.

That level of uncomfortableness she produces is Silverman’s biggest asset. She’s a born storyteller and can sustain a premise for much longer than should be possible. But Silverman’s’ biggest detriment is her over-reliance on raunch humor. I sometimes wonder if people pay to see her just to her what outrageous observations manifest from out of her sickly sweet guise of innocence. The way she exposes double-standards and hypocrisy is delivered as a potent mixture of outrage and sarcasm; yet, she’ll be the first one in the room to follow it up with a dick or fart joke.

And that’s cool. If you don’t want to wade too far out into the deep waters of social commentary, a la Lewis Black or George Carlin, Silverman is your girl. And We Are Miracles isn’t going to convert the unwashed masses into leagues of Sarah Silverman fans. But, over the course of the LP, when she has you in her grasp, she will make you laugh, shudder, and cringe, all at once. Just like an regrettable sexual encounter, you’ll think back on it as a moment of pure pleasure. The longer you live with it, though, the more you might live to regret it.

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