Love Language
(Merge)
There comes a time when some one needs to spout, "Enough is enough!" -- even if some journals find an artist good and/or buzz-worthy enough for high ratings, conversations about his writing process, and glowing featurettes. Even if the artist seems wounded, and humble, and puts his mother on his album cover. And even if his record company gives him the red-carpet treatment. Still. There comes a time when a reviewer has endured a brain-freezing quantity of fluffy new "pop," which is often presented as more important or groundbreaking via any or all of these adjectives: "dream," "visual,' "alternative," "retro," "indie."
During Pop's various glory days, some artists managed one or two shining moments but weren't expected to churn out one, let alone multiple, full-lengths of comparable material. Examples include Mungo Jerry, Pilot, and Thurston Harris, who shined when his "Little Bitty Pretty One" kicked the ass of Bobby Day's version in '57. The Beatles and their talented contemporaries ushered in the concept of pop musicians as artistes/full-length producers. Forty-some years later, consumers are bringing the whole thing full circle; creating "hits," download by single download.
Full-lengths can be wonderful. Keeping the (new, contemporary) Pop designation, several artists have made excellent records (at least half the songs were very good, and some sort of thematic aura held) this year, among them: Surfer Blood, Avi Buffalo, and Ash Reiter (the Morning Benders put out half a great one). But much recent pop is as banal as Jan and Dean or Doris Day, and as likely to be forgotten within five years. And with that in mind, the reviewer is forced to conclude that Stuart McLamb of the Love Language is wearing no clothes - or, more to the point, that he sounded better without a wardrobe of Spectorish density leading to restlessness and head-banging (not the fun kind) and instead indulging a lo-fi, found-art splendor as exemplified by "Sparxxx" on last year's The Love Language.
Since McLamb sporadically emits a decent melody, but generally lacks bridges and/or masterful choruses, it's hard to get behind producer B.J. Burton's purpose - other than to be called The New Phil Spector - in thickening, and often over-lengthening, McLamb's resulting monotonous riffs. The few songs that manage to survive this treatment are listed below. But something should probably be pointed out: One of these, "Anthophobia," sounds an awful lot like Beach House's "Walk in the Park." It's not like any plagiarism seems to have been intended. It's more like the current crop of over-lauded songsmiths is drinking from a communal trough of energy drinks, perhaps licensed by Supertramp. And our hypothetical reviewer needs to share that she is weary of thin, high-pitched vocals, and that in this case she's trying not to resent McLamb for reminding her of Pee Wee Herman, who she adores.
DOWNLOAD: "Heart to Tell," "Horophones," "This Blood Is Our Own," "Anthophobia" MARY LEARY
