:: Track Listing

1. Tuesday [mp3]
2. Fairgrounds
3. Hot Commods [mp3]
4. Status hounds
5. Typhoon
6. War talk
7. Dinner with Ivan
8. Fresh Boys [mp3]
9. Molly
10. Hollis (Hope to Come Back)

:: Record Review (No Big Hair)⊙ No Big Hair Home

Roommate

Songs the Animals Taught Us (NBH)
(Self-released/Plug Research; 2005/2006)

Rating: 74%
Combined Rating: 73%


Kent Lambert --- Chicagoan, transplant by way of Iowa and New York, auspicious mind behind Roommate --- has played keyboards with a touring Devin Davis, has sought community with the Rhombus, and has finally gathered a Roommate band: Evelyn Weston on saw, Woody Sullender on banjo, Anton Hatwich on bass, Davis on theremin, xylophonist Dewayne Slightweight, Tim Daisy on vibes and drums, percussionist/visual dude Mark Wright, Amy Cimini on viola, Katie Young on bassoon, etc. on etc., who all, in yet unseen formations, will tour with Lambert. Although the guy’s still dabbling in places like the Hideout, he’s got a tight group of musicians behind him, and with a reputation already glowing in the spotlight of festival-celebrated film pieces, his debut LP, Songs the Animals Taught Us, seems about ready to run the road.

To then hear how Songs is paranoid, suffocating headphone candy, owing as much to Kid A’s aesthetic as “Dinner with Ivan” doesn’t owe to Big Head Todd and the Monsters’s jambandiness, could be shocking, what with the expansive family unit Lambert’s mustered. Truth is, Roommate’s songs breathe epically in a tattered, wet-live setting, even gaining a twang or two, but on record they become the painstaking stakes of bedroom patience. Disappointing at first, this is more the mark of a confident artist, a performer and studio caveman who understands the balance between the two and the weaknesses in each. Stinks, then, when the excesses of one clamor over the strengths of the other; really, when digital noise contorts and jumbles Lambert’s strongest melodies.

Please. Do not let these caveats deter you from investigating a truly enjoyable record. The end of “Hot commods” may be grating, when curling reverb burns the ugly off a nice piano into extended conflagration. Don’t become despairing when the watery processing of “Fresh boys’” vocals refocuses the attention of your ears from the graceful acoustic guitar and cathartic vocal melody to the warbles themselves. Calm down. M83 probably won’t hear the end of “Hollis,” and if they do, they’d most likely be kinda flattered. And, OK, just stay away from “War talk,” which, as flimsy and histrionic and downright clunky as this can get, is short and forgettable flushed against the other fully realized tracks here.

Please, take a gander at “Tuesday,” all Lambert enveloped in delayed drumloops and gameboy speckles, muted behind swarthy synths, aimless and bearfur warm. His harmonies creak, allowing divots in an otherwise flawless sheen, and his blanket layers find ways to stipple. The effect is a robotic arrangement learning to act naturally, fooling the ears with translucent labyrinths, lulling a listener into passivity. Same goes for “Fairgrounds,” a Notwist/the Books carnival of sliced banjo and burr, which devolves like Blanche DuBois into theatrical madness, moved only by the manic strumming of “Uncle” Woody Sullender. And same for “Hot commods,” which is a shimmering gem until it shimmers itself blind. Or even for “Status hounds,” before the lyrics really register.

So, my biggest trepidation is with Roommate’s lyrics, attempts at pre-apocalyptic, sterile nota benes for impending human dissolution. In the shadow of Lambert’s lauded Celebs EP, a gem from 2001, the titular dissection of the stalwarts of consumer hegemony become retread and hollow observations here, amounting to little more than calling out “white boys with elegant toys” and “funny money.” We feel, we do, given Lambert’s gigantic soundscape, that he could have done much better, but the chagrin is coupled with awe more than anything, and the lyrics seem a ripe misstep.

The most astounding expression of Lambert’s skill is in how frontloaded the album first appears, its first four tracks ostensibly its best, before being revealed as befuddlingly sexy as it is. Songs the Animals Taught Us works a seductive reasoning over the listener, trumping a firsthand cloud of fancy doohickeys in order to work the audience into more challenging fare. When blips straddle traditional song structures, disobeying best interests and groping good taste, we’re ready for it all, lulled into trusting Kent’s obsequious charm. We believe he knows where we’re going, even if enders like “Molly” and “Hollis” wander into static din.

We should return briefly to Songs’s first three cuts, return to how firmly they assert Lambert’s skill at arrangement. Each drum tap, drum swamp, skittled pulse, skewered banjo arpeggio, and underbelly synth are imparted with enough echoed space to harangue importantly between speakers. From there, over the course of te remaining, the pieces begin to froth, losing an exotic edge. On “Typhoon,” though, the milky cud of a gothic bass fights deliriously with galactic bells, but Kent’s voice saves the track from the traps of a VAST B-side.

The thing about Kent’s voice is not that it is especially fierce or safe from tremors, but that his inflections point to something outside of the “Songs.” He harmonizes with sloppy beauty, usually tucked behind a layer of cacophony before striking from the back with a held, prickled note. Roommate may have assembled a formidable crew, but the true trophy to his ardour is how desperately he seems to want to break from the bedroom. Thicker than meticulous, Kent Lambert’s made an albino ready for the sun, a debut restless with its genesis. Dom Sinacola :: 2 December 2007 |