Best Coast’s debut album Crazy For You is like a lot of things: Lying in the sunny spot on the shag carpet trying to pick bits of weed out from Chips Ahoy crumbs and cat fur; a bitter slice of life from the frontiers of post-feminist living;  the sort of music Oedipa Maas would listen to as she journeys around California on her ultimately deranged quest. But what it’s most like is too many scoops of cotton candy ice cream in an overflowing glass of cognac and Coca Cola.

Is Bethany Cosentino high? (Hah, yes.) Every song on the album is at the same time a joy to listen to and aural torture. The sound of the album refers to gauzy 60s surf rock and slacker 90s alternative rock. In other words, the album’s bona fides check out. To people our age, Crazy For You is a very appealing record. Unfortunately, it suffers from being made for people our age. It’s made to be muzak for your next trip to Urban Outfitters. Unlike her previous 7″s and singles, the album lacks both lo-fi charm and sensible mixing. Every song (excepting the last) is too loud and obnoxious to hear for very long. The record has an ostensible lo-fi sound, but the texture of it is wielded more as a stylistic choice than a material necessity. The recording lacks dynamics, and its consistent guitar tone — at first is quite pleasing — starts to grate. Its crackles and pops are not recording artifacts or spontaneous ephemera from the equipment; that’s just the sound of too much volume. Crazy For You seems  a little disingenuous in that the sound merely refers to the warmth of poor quality and vintage equipment, but what it actually presents is an almost clinical representation of the punishing digital representation of sound. The only song that comes close to capturing the charming, warm sound of her earlier recordings is the final track, “When I’m With You,” which is the only older song to appear on the album. It’s listenability seems like a fortunate accident.

Lyrically, the record also presents a curiously cruel give and take. At times it offers heartbreaking candor and self-inquisitive aptness. Lines like “I lost my job / I miss my mom / I wish my cat could talk” and “The other girl is not like me / She’s prettier and skinnier / She has a college degree / I dropped out when I was seventeen” give us a glimpse of the shut it, stoned out humor and self-doubt that everyone experiences when they’re having a summer bummer. On the other hand, most of the songs read like they’re straight from a seventeen year old’s journal. They’re all simple self-loathing, worthlessness, and boy craziness. I have to return again to “When I’m With You,” because it’s honestly the only great song on an otherwise kind of all-right album. Its pleasing refrain of “The world is crazy / But you and me / We’re just crazy, so / When I’m with you I have fun” sets the listener’s expectations perfectly. It’s a simple, fun rock song that expresses one of the most common human conditions, looking for shelter from the uncanniness of the world by pairing off with another searcher. It’s about a fully integrated We that’s against a likely malicious Them, which is what weed paranoia is all about. Rather than expressing disgust with herself, or her generally unappealing tendency to wait by the phone for another guy (why does she like him so much? she never says), it sets the table and gives us a pretty simple, sweet meal. The rest of the album could give pablum a bad name.

Crazy For You is ultimately a pretty large success, despite all. It was clearly created for summer barbecues, driving with the windows open, and playing at the beach. The record is an anodyne for the summer heat and its sometimes endless loneliness. Except, of course, the summer does end, and so does loneliness. When its fall or winter, I can’t see Crazy For You being that great of an album, and I can’t see Best Coast being a band with a career unless they develop fast. Or only release albums in July.

But in the few weeks since I’ve started listening to Maps & Atlases’ Perch Patchwork, I’ve awoken nearly every morning with one of its tracks spinning in my mental stereo.  And I don’t mean just one of its tracks.  I mean most of the album’s songs have had at least one turn waking me up.  This album is that absurdly catchy.  Yet these melodies aren’t merely absurdly catchy.  They’re nimble and sophisticated and precise, like Eastern European acrobats.  Propelled by refreshingly unorthodox rhythms, intricate riffs, and singer Dave Davison’s tastefully poignant voice, the tunes frequently ascend toward heaven like fluttering moths before trickling back down to earth like misty rain.

Though perhaps what I love even more than the melodies is the way that Perch Patchwork feels like a journey.  Maybe not an epic journey, but a unique and very personal journey, taken by a nostalgic nomad who’s destined to wander forever while pining for a home he can never return to. (That’s the impression I get, at least.  The lyrics, while evocative, are often oblique.  As in, “I slept on/ the solid ground/ near your house/ and the frost looked like/ a castle wrapped up in tin.”)

The journey starts with a bemused yet optimistic-sounding look toward the future (”Will”), but over the course of the next few tracks, the tone gradually darkens like falling dusk.  Triumphant tribal drums are haunted by heartbreak in “The Charm;”  the danceable beat and sprightly, Phil Collins-like melodies of “Living Decorations” are afflicted by wiry, jittery guitars; on “Solid Ground,” hope is tempered by wintry angst.  Near the middle of the journey (”Is”), some minor-key acoustic guitars gallop in 7/8 time as the night wind carries the wails of lost souls, and it sounds like the foreshadowing of a long, bleak road ahead.

Instead, “Is” leads us into a sunny afternoon of meadow-frolicking- complete with zippy flutes, tropical brass and shimmering harmonies- that lasts for four and a half tracks.   Typically I have a low tolerance for such meadow-frolicking, but since the tunes continue to be so compelling and airtight, I’ve never been tempted to skip anything in this section of the record.  Then halfway through track 10 (”If This Is”), the mood drastically shifts once more, this time into something comforting yet bittersweet, like a blanket knitted by a long-lost lover.  This sentiment carries through to the title track at the very end, where Davison sings, “We can leave this place/ no one lives here anymore.”  He sounds resigned, but never defeated.  “With the race over/ we take what we can get.”   It’s a fittingly stirring ending to one of the most beautifully-crafted albums I’ve heard in years.

Is it possible to hear the sound of approaching doom?  Does approaching doom sound kind of like room tone, but darker?  Can we hear approaching doom squeezing a singer’s nerves tightly in its clutches?  Can we physically sense the presence of approaching doom as it plays maestro to an ill-fated orchestra?

For instance, some people seem convinced that they could hear Kurt Cobain’s demons lurking in the shadows of Unplugged In New York.  Yet how many of those claims come from keen human intuition, and how many are simply embellished memories revised by tragedy?  Hard to tell.

I can tell you this for sure, though: when I first listened to Cambodian Rocks, I heard something.  Something strange, spectral, and vaguely sinister.  I don’t know if I would have called it “approaching doom” back then.  But I definitely heard something.

Cambodian Rocks and I met years ago, back when I still clacked through the racks of used CD shops.  At first sight, Cambodian Rocks sure didn’t seem like a classic record.  The cover art looked like a crummy Xerox of a cheap postcard.  The back of the jewel case suggested the work of a company that advertised X-Ray Specs and Sea Monkeys to comic-reading kids in the ’50s  (“Great music and lots of fun!” the album says of itself).  In place of a track listing, there was a note from the album’s compiler, a traveler identified only as P.W.:

“…In a truck on our way up to Angkor, the driver had one cassette which he played over and over.  All of it was sung in Cambodian.  There was pop, rock, soul, and it sounded incredibly fresh.  I was able to hum my favorite song well enough to get a copy of it later…”

P.W. finishes by declaring, “You’ve never heard anything like it.” While I didn’t quite believe the hype, I was intrigued.  Maybe subconsciously I had an inkling that the musicians who played on this album would eventually become casualties in one of history’s biggest genocides- but I doubt it.  (In my defense, my 9th grade “Global Studies” class never taught me a lick about the Khmer Rouge.)  No, all I remember thinking at the time of that purchase was that Cambodian Rocks might be worth at least a few bucks and a couple of listens.

P.W. was right, though.  Not long into my first spin through the album, I realized I had never heard anything like Cambodian Rocks before.  It wasn’t merely the novelty of hearing the fuzzbox guitars, beach party beats and sly hooks of Western pop and garage rock filtered through the ancient spirits of Far Eastern folk music (though that part’s certainly very cool).  See, on the same day I bought my copy of Cambodian Rocks, I bought a similar comp called Thai A Go-Go, and I soon discovered that the latter paled hideously in comparison to the former.  That fascinatingly inexplicable something that oozed out of the Cambodians was nowhere to be found with the Thai.  So I kept on listening to Cambodian Rocks, trying in vain to grasp its elusive mystique.

It helped a lot that the album has so much more to offer than just its aura.  The strongest and most immediate allure was the young siren who appeared on about half the album’s tracks.  Her voice was outrageously nasal, yet full of grace and soul.  Her high-pitched quavering made her sound girlish and naive, yet she also exuded a commanding diva-like presence- somewhere between Diana Ross and Betty Boop, only Cambodian.

A few years later, once Wikipedia came to be, I was pleased to learn that the singer, Ros Serey Sothea, was something of a national treasure in her day.  She had the kind of voice that could lure you to a snail shop.  (No, really.)  The King of Cambodia himself called her “The Golden Voice of the Royal Capital.”

Then, shortly after realizing who she was and how much well-deserved success she enjoyed, I was crushed to learn that Ros Serey Sothea, like many other artists and intellectuals in 1970s Cambodia, vanished without a trace and was most likely executed in The Killing Fields.

Once I realized the connection between Cambodian Rocks and the Khmer Rouge, that peculiar something seemed to make a lot more sense.  The way those ominous organs pierce the Top 40 melodies.  The abysses between the cracks in the cheery veneer.  Those startling screams that start to sound less like teenagers blowing off steam, and more like honest-to-God primal fear.  They don’t really scream like that on Nuggets.

And that’s how it dawned on me that Cambodian Rocks was the sound of the Last Night On Earth Party that rages as as Pol Pot’s murderous goons batter down the concert hall doors.  Even the crummy Xerox postcard on the cover suddenly had another shade of meaning: the idols have been frozen right in the middle of a jubilant dance.  Invigorated by divine and ancient music, their arms reach to the heavens and their heels are so happy they’re kicking themselves in the butt.  The expressions on their faces are not quite so joyous, however.  The idols wear only faint traces of smiles.  Could it be that they can’t shake a bad feeling that someone’s about to kill their celebration in a most gruesome fashion?

Of course, that could just be tragedy shaping my perceptions again.

Thanks to WFMU’s Beware Of The Blog, you can hear all of Cambodian Rocks right here.

Caw! Caw! should be more well known. Unless you were searching specifically for this review, chances are you’ve never heard of Caw! Caw!. Yet, they’ve been playing music in and around their native Chicago since 2001 and have been independently releasing their music through a 2008 EP and a MySpace music page. From what I’ve discovered in the backwaters and far corners of the internet, the band’s been winning over fans one at a time the old fashioned way: with high-energy house shows, mini-tours, and artistic sincerity. 2010’s Bummer Palace is their wildly ambitious full-length debut, a sprawling statement proclaiming the obsolescence of genre descriptors and musical boundaries.

It’s difficult to write about how Caw! Caw! move from indie rock to post-rock to pop to punk, adding flourishes of soul or ska or new wave, all with a soaring falsetto reminiscent of Sigur Ros. It’s clear that Caw! Caw! draw from an ever-growing body of influences, and I’m sure that the unfamiliar reader is probably about ready to dismiss this band as one that suffers from the sheer sum of its parts.  However Caw! Caw!’s sound is remarkably cohesive and Bummer Palace is surprisingly devoid of jarring transitions.

Opener “Toothless” starts with a head-bobbing Pavement-esque rift complimented by soaring melodies and sustained notes. The track continually builds to joyful ending, divergent guitar riffs leading to a final display of melodic pop-punk.

“Sons of Sons of Saviors” follows suit, shifting from ethereal post-rock to bouncy punk rock until finally ending up somewhere between the two by the tracks closing. Bummer Palace is filled with long, epic songs; I close my eyes and visions of James Cameron’s Alien dances round in my head. And Caw! Caw! is the soundtrack playing when the aliens are heroically fought off by a gang of unusual suspects armed with lethal guitar riffs. Lyrically, Caw! Caw! overwhelm the listener with a barrage of surreal images, pulling from comic books, role-playing games and fantasy movies. All this magical geekiness is not without a knowing wink and smile, as a layer of humor and self-awareness is pivotal to the band’s style and tone. The juxtaposition between Bummer Palace’s playfulness and serious musical intensity is extremely refreshing for those tired of the familiar persona ascribed to most things “indie rock.”

“Martyrs in Ice” blends a soulful rhythm locked between drum and bass with echo-y, reverb-soaked guitars. In my first listen review I was fearful that Caw! Caw! would fall victim to their diversity in sounds, producing an album devoid of a central style. After a dozen or so listens, that fear or criticism is pretty much out the window. Bummer Palace is highly entertaining release worthy of praise. So, if you haven’t heard Caw! Caw!, now is the time to jump aboard. It’s only a matter of time before these guys receive the widespread attention and recognition they deserve.

Seemingly, being in Wolf Parade is a simple process. Pick a riff, pick a strange name (Yulia, Anastasia, etc.), pick a catch phrase, repeat all ad naseum.  Predictability is all the rage.  While I like aspects of their newest effort, I find that most of the time I am tuned out, waiting for the next song, eager to be able to move to another album.  It was quite the same way I felt about the newest Black Keys record.  While rock bands struggle to find new ways to execute the same tired material, certain bands have just decided to embrace their inner-70s/80s and make good use of some old tricks.

I’m not totally against Wolf Parade on this.  I actually like the path they’ve chosen.  I understand their decisions on this album, for the most part.  Expo 86 feels like a mixtape of Wolf Parade’s favorite bands– a list of influences combined with their off-kilter lyrics.  Then, after all the dot-connecting dust settles, the listener is left with a quandary. Do we like what Wolf Parade likes? Are we that into their panicky vocals, their friskiness, their overly-simple keyboard warbles?  Depends on the person.  I’d like to explain why I am not happy with the album, but it’s difficult.  Difficult because I like what they like, I want to like what they do.  The manic energy, the overall aesthetic– Expo 86 is an album I am inclined to love.  Yet, for all it’s charm and sing-along rollicking, I don’t love it.

While Wolf Parade are lauded, among other things, for that surplus of personality, that is precisely what is lacking in Expo 86.  I mention earlier the referenece points of other albums– it’s as if their love of the past has taken over their love of themselves.  Their personalities are melding with the likes of their influences.  When I hear other bands with this problem (style over function), I usually dismiss the band.  Most times, the band’s personality and flair are not enough to overcome their influences.  Wolf Parade can overcome, as evidenced in previous efforts, but I don’t believe they have in this case.

Still, the groundwork is there.  WP are still a fun, if not as entertaining, band. “Pobody’s Nerfect,” despite the horrible name and needless guitar solo, is a real rocker. “Palm Road” is a repetitive jam, but catchy as all hell.  I like “Little Golden Age.” But it’s the gusto of selling lyrics, in this case “Yulia”: “The radio sings/ a patriot song/ the devil that you know/ Yulia.”  It’s the solos and run-ragged rhythms I’ve heard done better by worse bands.  It’s the lack of originality that leaves more to be desired.  It’s the oddball preacher routine that starts “Cloud Shadow on the Mountain,” the album’s opener.  Call and response between the singer and guitar, references to dreams and overloaded imagery (”I was a dreamcatcher hanging in the window of a minivan parked along the water’s edge/ I’d say that I was all alone.” “Everybody gotta be reborn/but you’ll never be born as a scorpion.”) combine to lead me down a stylistically challenging path, only to find out I’m only being led to the same oasis of rock-and-roll I’ve visited hundreds of times before. The well is dry there, Wolf Parade, but thanks for trying.

Let’s say you’re watching a horror movie where the villain is this Lovecraftian beast, as old as time itself.  Despite its gargantuan size and blob-like physique, this beast can move with the force of a rhino and the agility of a mongoose.  It has the insouciant attitude of a high school bully in his third senior year.  It could maul an asthmatic little girl, then turn right around and high-five his beastly bros while they all chuckle like dumb stoners.

And just as this beast is lurching toward one of its victims, ready to strike- suddenly you see the zipper on the costume start to unzip.  Then the dude inside the costume jumps out, looks right into the camera and plays 6 verses of “Oh Susanna” using armpit farts.

I get this feeling a lot when I listen to The Melvins, and especially during The Bride Screamed Murder. When they wield their monster truck riffs and their kinky metal rhythms and crane-sized hooks- which they do for nearly 30 of the new album’s 45 minutes- they’re unstoppable.  Rock like theirs both empowers and frightens me.  It makes me feel 15 feet taller and 10 tons heavier, and it makes me want to rampage my way through midtown Manhattan in rush hour.

I also find the band’s juvenile Dadaist humor refreshing- but only in small doses.  Like many great class clowns, The Melvins don’t seem to know (or care) when enough is enough.  A couple of ideas that might’ve been amusing for 15 seconds (a boot camp cadence, a leaky balloon rubber chicken impersonating a jazzy sax) become painful before they reach the minute-and-a-half mark.  Worst of all are the last 2 tracks: a sludgy, smart-ass cover of “My Generation” and a tedious, half-assed nightmare called “P.G. x 3.”  At a combined length of 14 minutes, these 2 tracks gunk up almost an entire third of this otherwise ferocious album.

Yet as much as these kinds of aggressive shenanigans can get on my nerves, I suppose it’s all for the best.  I can’t help but wonder if this refusal to take themselves too seriously is a big reason why The Melvins continue to roll on long after most of their humorless grunge-metal disciples have self-destructed.  (See also The Ramones, AC/DC.)  If that attitude means they’ll keep cranking out killers like “Evil New War God” and “Electric Flower” for many more years, then awesome.  I just wish they’d keep more of their silliness confined to the studio.

Woods are playing in my kitchen.  It is May 2010 and I am cooking tacos before I settle into the NBA playoffs for the night.  I am barely listening, browning meat.

Woods are playing on a train ride into work.  The people around me are tired and sullen; preparing for a long day.  A couple holds hands.  I am reading, half-listening.  I notice the easygoing nature of At Echo Lake.

Woods are playing as I stumble toward a train home.  I am drunk (drunj) as all hell and trying to maintain focus.  It’s hard to focus, though, as I try and sing along.  This album rules.  I am yelling the choruses to no one.  “Who knows what tomorrow might bring/ and it shows.”  Sure, the intricacies are lost on me for now, but I am rocking out.

Woods are playing in my bedroom upon my waking.  It is beautiful outside despite me having to go to work soon.  The guitars are standing out now; the tinny vocals affect me.  This album is no fluke.  I like it despite it’s flaws.  I begin to think the flaws aren’t that at all.  Maybe they are brilliant and I am just predisposed to loving polished work too often.  If these gentlemen were jamming on my porch, I would be enraptured.

Woods are playing as I get off of work. It is still light out for the walk to one of my favorite bars.  I listen to song 4 (”Time Fading Lines”) on repeat a couple of times.  It’s partly because it is a nice slow jam to settle me down and partly because I don’t really like song 5 (the instrumental, “From the Horn”).  I am in love with the way the album sounds now.  I text my friend who recommended it and thank him. The album sounds small and rounded, yet larger than it’s own need.

Woods are playing everywhere I go now.  They are the epitome of penetrating, purposeful sloppiness.  The most impressive thing about At Echo Lake is the fact that Woods could actually be playing anywhere, the bar, the street, the train, the kitchen, the bedroom and it would feel perfectly fine.  They are home after a rough night, they are out during the making of a rough night.  They are sunny and rainy weather, makeshift yet totally in control.  Paradoxes are usually left to technically superior bands, but Woods– they don’t sound technically superior.  This plays directly into why the album works.  They are all the things you need in a rock band without having to play to any strengths.

Woods are playing the last two songs on their album over and over again (”Deep” and “‘Til the Sun Rips”) and I am grateful that they are.  I wish I had a porch.  Hell, these days I wish I had a lot of things.  It’s been a rough go.  But I am happy as hell I am alive and listening to At Echo Lake.  They clap my hands for me while I want to bury my head in them.  They sing for me when my voice is ragged from yelling over patrons.  They move my feet when they are in pain from multiple jobs.  They keep my eyes steady when I want to roll them back in my head.  They keep me “ripping it up/ ’til the light hits the eye.”  Woods are playing, so I am listening.  I probably will be for awhile.

The measure of a good album comes from an amalgam.  However, the idea that it is a good album comes from personal opinion.  The arbitrary number an album receives from some site, the makeshift paragraphs and accolades, the disappointed sighs in bedrooms or cars as an album fails to grasp a listener, the lonely eyes closing as a line falls through the ears to the pit of the stomach (”Mother/do you know now/ love is not painless, it’s poison?”)– it’s all some reaction to learned sound; a chemical reaction to noise.

Still, the noise will drift over you.  And when the reaction happens, you ignore the reasons why.  You react.  In that way, Saint Bartlett is a reactionary album (”Magic will do/ What magic will do/ living in your eyes.”)  His songs are normal stories set to abnormal thoughts.   A character in a Jurado song is quite often placed in circumstances of the modern condition, yet they are allowed to respond so personally, so devastatingly, that the song stands out in a world of frivolous lyrical impact.  There is no “I love you” or “Come Back to Me” or simple questions.  Instead, it’s “If you return to me.” Characters are given choices and consequences.  They provide insight.

Saint Bartlett’s songs provide insight without overly-catchy lyrics.  Echoing vocals– with the feel of old-school country-western– warble over quiet drums, acoustic and electric guitars, occasional pianos and some accoutrement.  These songs are short and powerful expositions.   The arrangements are delicate at times– “Throwing Your Voice” is an especially thin song with angry, parental lyrics that sound like they are just about to break into sobs.  Other times, the arrangements are beefed-up– “Wallingford” hits harder with a larger guitar sound that makes the vocals seem like an afterthought. A lyric from “Wallingford” backs up the sound: “Calling out/ Your voice is an echo./ No words come back but your own.”

It would be easy to credit the previous paragraph to the production only.  I mean, Richard Swift in a room with Damien Jurado is a room I want to be in.  But, really, production is only as good as the minds collaborating.  I know plenty of songs/albums that have amazing production for no reason.  All the aforementioned instrumentation wields an easygoing construction– like many of Jurado’s older efforts.  What’s impressive is that Saint Bartlett takes unnecessary chances and succeeds without fail.  “Kamala,” my favorite song on the album, could have been very powerful as acoustic sad-sackery.  It even starts off that way in the first chords.  But a full band, including back-up singers, accentuates Jurado’s caterwauling so beautifully that I can’t imagine him playing it alone as I usually prefer him.

And onward the songs go– “Kansas City” is a beautiful remembrance of painful parting, “Harborview” seems like a westernized version of zen koans, “The Falling Snow” is an exercise in futility from a personal perspective, “Beacon Hill” is a simplistic story of sickness (”If you return to me” being an impossibly beautiful line for people unable to function in society), and “With Lightning in Your Hand” is a modified praise-song.  Each and every one of them is near-perfect.  Each one declares themselves like an essay whose thesis sprawls out near a radiator-close, rain-soaked window (”Will you return with a mighty storm?”).

So, yeah, personally I am in love with this album.  From the opener, “Cloudy Shoes” and its repeating lines and hopeful string swells to the downtrodden second wind of the album (songs 9-12), I exercise my right to hear Jurado pining for the pratfalls of life; exploding in sorry fireworks that barely catch the attention of the people he describes (”I wish that/ I could float/ Float up from the ground./ I will never know/ What’s that’s like.) .  Everymen so often ignore the very people singing directly to them (rather than trying to appeal to them), that it is almost impossible to tell them about themselves.  Perhaps that is why Jurado keeps trying (Funny how we all can change/ if we just try to./ I thought it was impossible to live in love like you.).  Maybe it is why we all keep trying.  All you can do is keep trying.  “I’m still trying to fix my mind.” No arbitrary number or preference can refute that.

The Stranded EP is a 10-minute exploration of simplicity.  Though the listener could decide to write Electricians off as sad-sackery or, even worse, dismiss the non-polished sound as demo-tape or second-rate, but Electricians have put together a worthy set of songs.  Let’s start with what this EP is, though, before we jump into what it isn’t.  It’s tight.  It’s well-constructed. It’s purposeful  nonchalance and that is the staple of their mood.

Their ambiance is the ambivalence to normal constraints.  Consider the lyrics and the effortless effrontery of “Sometimes:” I thought I knew the answer/ and I thought the answer was me.  Later: “If you want to be so different/ I won’t stand in your way.”  Or in the equally intriguing Cemetery Talk: “You’re exactly what I wanted avoid.”  Or, in the defining and opening “Stranded,” My heart is just another song/ for you to pass your judgement on…” “That’s alright with me./ I knew I’d be stranded with nowhere to be.” It’s easier to talk about their influences here, but it’s more gratifying to notice the subtle grandeur.  Over easygoing rambles, like awkward gaits of those newly confident for all the right reasons, they deliver fantastic lyrics.  They meet unfounded expectations.  Most of all, they deliver more than most bands with twice the production.

Not to say the production isn’t an issue.  The splashy cymbals and loud, jangly guitars (most overdone in closer “Adieu, Adieu”) would get annoying if not for the brevity of Stranded. However, analyzing a startup band for not having terrific production does not interest me.  I’d rather analyze the potential of an up-and-comer than nitpick their tinniness.

And the potential is high: the songwriting is there, and the production will come.  In an era of manic loudness or fly-by-night trendiness, a solid indy-pop band is always welcome.  Especially one that gives their EP away.  Aggressiveness may not be their strong point in the music, but they certainly seem aggressive about getting their music to the world.  Not bad for exploring the seemingly mundane? Nah, to hell with all that.  It’s just good.

For those unacquainted with Dark Dark Dark, they are a six piece acoustic chamber pop ensemble with musical ties to Minneapolis, New York and New Orleans. If those locations conjure up a cacophony of regional sounds in your mind’s eye, well, you are probably on the right track. Dark Dark Dark are like musical alchemists, blending the old with the new, and creating something rather enjoyable.

Bright Bright Bright is a six song EP that blends jazz, indie pop, and folk music using traditional string instruments, piano, drums and voice. You can put away the amplifiers; Bright Bright Bright is a beacon from ages past, yet it is lead singer Nona Marie Invie’s vocals that set this release apart from others.

The EP opens with the title track “Bright Bright Bright.” Introduced with a somber melody on piano, Invie’s voice shines early on. She sings, “I hurt myself nearly as much as I hurt you,” and it sends shivers down my spine. Her voice sounds remarkably old, like one of those voices in the black and white movies on AMC.  The song crescendos to a backing chorus of harmonized voices and the melody shifts between minor and major chords, softening the eerie melody with moments of brightness.

“The Hand” is Dark Dark Dark moving in a somewhat different direction. Trumpet, accordion, and timpani-like percussion lead a jaunty-tune. At times Arcade Fire comparisons seem apt, but Dark Dark Dark lack the more contemporary mood that the Arcade Fire create.  “The Hand” also lacks some of the emotional intensity of the other tracks. More upbeat in nature, the song is contrary to Dark Dark Dark’s strong suit, namely, all things slow, moody and melancholy.

One of the best qualities of this record is its production. Recorded in a converted church, it rebounds and resounds with a wholeness. In “Something for Myself,” Invie’s voice fills the room, and as the song swells from verse to chorus, the atmosphere of the recording space is captured in the natural echoes.

The next two tracks, “Make Time” and “Flood,” are representative of the EP’s low points. They are too theatrical in nature and in “Make Time,” Invie hands over vocals to Marshall LaCount whose nasally voice in the lead disrupts the overall sound a bit.  On such a short release, his voice on only one track gives the listener little to digest. Perhaps with more tracks his style and delivery would grow on me. “Flood” has touching melodies, but at times I feel like I’m listening to a musical soundtrack.

Closer “Wild Goose Chase,” apparently a cover of an Elephant Micah song (who I had not heard before, but recently found on NPR and am quite enjoying at the moment!) is the most memorable track on Bright Bright Bright and an appropriate conclusion. Bright Bright Bright closes just as it opens, with simply a piano and a lovely voice, shifting between dark, bluesy chords and moments of shining resolve. Lyrically it’s the sometimes sad story of setting out on the road for freedom, money, and love.

Finally, I must admit that Dark Dark Dark fell out of my regular music rotation for a while, especially after such a strong initial response. While Bright Bright Bright is a solid offering with only two tracks missing the mark for me, it is definitely an EP that demands a very specific listening environment. This is the EP for evenings home with some quiet projects, or coffee bars and intelligent conversation.  But don’t let this review steer you away from giving Dark Dark Dark a solid listen.  You can stream their album for free on their website.