Band only shown in still images, and I couldn’t tell which was the singer, so rather than put up a grab of one of them and find out it’s the drummer or something, I’ve decided to hedge my bets a bit…
[Video][Website]
[3.44]
Martin Skidmore: I can see no point to the existence of this.
[1]
Anthony Easton: All of those words that people use to lazily dismiss indie apply here, and so I keep trying to avoid them, but what happens when a track is full of needling and anaemic white boys whining about their (really quite banal) sadness?
[2]
Iain Mew: Despite mishearing chopsticks as “I keep those sharp sticks you had from when you taught abroad” I totally assumed that the subject had been to Japan even before it was clarified. Pondering why that should be so (well, there is a certain type…) was at least something interesting to do while the rest of the song crawled its way along, never nearly pretty enough to justify the slow labouring of every musical and lyrical point.
[3]
Martin Kavka: Mush-mouthed indie band mourns one of their grandfathers. I don’t know if I can be bothered to care about a guy who is so barely fleshed out as a character, but there are interesting things going on with the drums. Sadly, this will be an anthem for young hipsters, who are at the age when their grandparents are dying off and when they are most susceptible to the cheap grace of most indie rock.
[3]
Chuck Eddy: Holy moley, Vampire Weekend wannabes already? Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Anyway, this makes my eyes roll so fast that I almost start to appreciate the originators (I said almost. Way more interesting: songs that sounded a lot like Vampire Weekend decades before they existed but that they’ve probably never even heard of — you now, like “Toomus Meremereh Nor Good” by Mofungo from 1986, or maybe “Hotel” by 10cc from 1974).
[3]
Pete Baran: I can see they are trying, but they aren’t aggressively breaking out of an alternative music comfort zone. Quirky intro, well produced drums (drumsticks), plaintive singing with a message obscure enough to be meaningful. Given I am not sure we need the Fleet Foxes, I am pretty sure we don’t need a poor man’s version.
[3]
Frank Kogan: The instructions said, simply, “Arrive at the giant oak at 2:30; choose your own conveyance.” I flagged down a vibraphone firetruck. With no actual fires to distract us, we didn’t do anything flashy (get it, “flashy”?), just ambled along discursively. As it got on 2:15 I realized everyone on the road was heading where we were, just going about it differently. It looked better than I’d feared, the percussionists on electric scooters, the pianist steering a flying rug, and the drummer pumping away at a three-wheeler while hauling a hot-dog cart. I wasn’t much excited by the sensitive guys half-comatose atop the faded VW bus, but they perked up whenever the percussionists drew near.
[6]
Matt Cibula: Drama, harmonies, chiming, drum tattoos; all the stuff that I haven’t liked in other recent hip bands, I somehow enjoy a little bit here. I LOVE that they told Pitchfork that they love the Zombies vocal arrangements. But does this mean I’d love a whole album of it? Reply hazy; ask again later.
[6]
Rodney J. Greene: Sometimes I wish The Fray would throw in a few art-damage signifiers.
[4]