CD reviews

 

A few years back, Merge released a two-disc set that gathered most of The Clean’s early-’80s output into one convenient package. The set was nothing short of a revelation. I don’t think it’s too bold to declare that the material on the first disc basically invented modern-day indie rock.

 

But where a band like the Pixies may have been a couple years too early to become the next Nirvana, The Clean were a full decade too early to become the next Pavement. They were the right sound at the wrong time, and hailing from New Zealand didn’t really help spread the word in the pre-Internet era.

 

Since the late ’80s, the band has reunited every eight years or so to do an album and a small tour, then returned to hibernation. And even though this current platter doesn’t have anything that competes with the band’s early gems, such as “Tally Ho” and “Anything Can Happen,” its dreamy pop sheen and VU-style minimalism make it an easy listen for fans of Yo La Tengo and their ilk.

 

The three standout tracks are two instrumentals, “Loog” and “Moonjumper,” and the second-to-last song on the disc, “Tensile.” All three songs find the band tiptoeing into Air and Pink Floyd territory, and the latter benefits from heavily processed vocals that complement its hypnotic execution.

 

It’s cool to see such elder statesmen still dipping into the well of experimentation. Perhaps Kiwi bands just age more gracefully than those in the States.

 

 

As the dubious “lo-fi revival” nears its saturation point, Girls have come to remind the kids that songs are still important. And they don’t have to be drenched in self-conscious layers of fuzzy adolescent ennui to be good.

Songwriter Christopher Owens seems to remember a time when musicians spoke directly to the heart, and in its own fractured way, Album is a love letter to youthful idealism, reinterpreting the innocence of doo-wop and the sensitivity of mid-’80s British indie for a modern audience. There’s not a trace of irony to be found here, and it makes for one of the year’s most refreshing releases.

 

Take these lyrics from Album’s closer, “Darling,” for example: “I was feeling so sad and alone / then I found a friend in the song that I’m singin’ / I was feeling like a nothing inside / then I found it all in a song.” On paper, these sentiments look as if they were torn straight out of a middle-school diary, but Owens delivers them with such raw emotion that he almost comes off as an American Morrissey, minus the literary pretense.

 

Not to say that Album isn’t fun. Despite the minor-chord relationship dramas detailed in “Laura” and “Lauren Marie,” the silly surf throwaway “Big Bad Mean Motherfucker” and the dreamlike “Summertime” are optimistic, even in the face of utter hopelessness. Just the album lovers of pure pop need for these dreary times.

 

 

You know how when you’re a kid, everything is absolute? Dance music is still stuck there, flipping between extreme maximalism and extreme minimalism, dour seriousness or punch-your-mom-in-the-face party ethic. It makes it hard to find music that does more than soundtrack individual emotions.

 

Somewhere between The Juan Maclean’s raucous four-on-the-floor formula and chamber vox techno of the likes of Bat for Lashes, there’s a fabled land called subtlety. Most the time, only Brian Eno lives there. But for once, a new guy, Vitalic (aka Pascal Arbez), hits it. He more than hits it. He owns it.

 

He’s back, and he’s got a danceable Enola Gay filled with subtlety bombs. The title track feels like the bastard child of Justice and Junior Boys—detuned and head-fucked, but not too far-gone to exude shy thoughtfulness.

“Your Disco Song” grabs a creepo, Crystal Castles-style child vocal and forces it to smash through pane after pane of 8-bit glass. The bass line draws a stealth-jet contrail across the background, again achieving the near-impossible feat of being silly while staying somber. Likewise, slow-burner “Alain Delon” is as implacable as its Le Samourai namesake, playing quiet, razor-sharp grooves, giving it up without giving it away.

 

I could rave about dance like this until I have a nanotech beard, but why bother? Get this record and spin it ’til you’re tired of it, then go listen to some Berlin-era Bowie or early Roxy Music. Then put on Flashmob again and realize multilayered paradoxical pop doesn’t come around that much anymore.

 

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