Heads
Ariel Pink and his band have become a strange mirror for the current music scene. At once, they began pointing out the smooth vanilla into which indie rock has melted into and the futility of critics who think musical greatness is something measured and mathematic, a goal that can be achieved by anything other than unabashed creation.
With its strange use of sound effects, screeching backup vocals and ’70s dance beats, the album – Pink’s ninth or so – and second with Haunted Graffiti, as far as I can piece together – is a menage of bad ideas repackaged with such joy it’s hard not to laugh along. It’s basically “The Room” as an album, a clusterfuck of ideas that are attacked in such an individual and unbridled manner, they somehow take on resonance.
Yet, while that may sound as a criticism, no amount of stars can convey just what a delight it is to hear an album this brilliantly batshit delivered so solemnly po-faced. Its head is up its own ass and singing through its throat.
This side of the album is best summed up by “Schnitzel Boogie,” a song whose main refrain is “I’m eatin’ schnitzel,” sung to a humdrum yet gum-sticky melody. There’s even a breakdown where Pink orders a burger, listing off ingredients to a drive-thru clerk, “lettuce, tomatoes and onions only.” Somehow it works.
The rest of the album putters around without logic, hop-skipping from keyboard-laced stories of assassins (“Kinski Assassin“) to bass-anchored boogies about landmines and oil wells (“Driftwood“) to exuberant schlock music about fancy-dining on artificial food (“Pink Slime“).
The grand finale comes closest to replicating the lived-in feel of “Round and Round,” the band’s breakout single and Pitchfork’s top song of 2010. “Baby,” though not as good as the original version by Donnie & Joe Emerson, is the album’s best track, and ironically, the album’s most conventional song. The song isn’t just butter, it’s butter melted and run through silk.
There may not be any cohesion in the sounds or message of “Mature Themes,” but every move is carefully contrarian, so much so that it almost becomes a cohesive whole, or at the very least a frightening portrait of what it must be like to be trapped in Pink’s brain.
Tails
[At this point in the chronology, the reviewer seems to have broken down completely; the original Google Doc is so splintered, we were forced to seek out the audio recorded on his Macbook at the time of the incident and transcribe it verbatim]
Pete writes: It’s hard to tell exactly when indie rock jumped the shark, when it became less about the enjoyment of the listener and more about intellectual masturbation, but using “Mature Themes” as a guidepost, it’s clear that we’re far past this point…
Pete starts writing stops. Changes the song, grows more frustrated. “How do I write about something I like in a negative way?” he asks.
[There are two knocks on the door]
Pete looks up at the door. His girlfriend opens it. It creaks.
GF: Did you see my Facebook message.
Pete: No. [He sits up in his chair.]
GF: You should, it’s important.
Pete: [Laughs.] Okay.
GF’s Message: What are you listening to and more importantly why do you hate me so much that you are subjecting me to it?
Pete: It’s not really something you’re supposed to like.
GF: Can you turn it off? Please?
Pete: I have to keep reviewing it.
GF: Fine, but promise you will never listen to it again with me around.
Pete: That’s fair.
GF: Your review can just be “no.” The word “no.” That would be fair.
VERDICT: Heads
Pete Rizzo can be reached at prizzo@thoughtpollution.com.