21 November 2008 :: Fortunately, Buckethead.

:: Record Review

The Rapture

Pieces of the People We Love
(Universal/Motown; 2006)

Rating: 82%
Combined Rating: 75%

If you’re going to make waves in the indie ocean, it’s best to get out of the way once the first one crests. The Rapture’s Out of the Races and Onto the Tracks EP (2001) was that first little seismic rupture beneath the anxiously flat surface of the music that had stagnated since Kid A (2000) pretty much tore the seas in half. The rumble caused a ripple in the form of the anticipating, inferior dancepunk acts that saw the beginnings of a trend that might raise them a little closer to the sun than those wallowing at mere sea level. Little did they know that they were just building the wave up just enough for Echoes (2003) to drop and bring the motherfucker down. Pitchfork made the cred gamble of awarding a merely really good album the status of Best Album of the Year, because if the investment paid dividends the Fork boys would have had hype dibs for years.

But then the investment didn’t pay dividends. Instead the wave stumbled, and apologetic lauding for the next DFA albums supplanted what should have been the hailing of the next great era of accessible-yet-independent music. And now we speak of dancepunk in a woeful past tense.

Ask me, and I’ll say it pretty much comes down to marking “House of Jealous Lovers” as the genre’s early apogee. Big mistake, I’ll say, because hot damn the track had heat, but actually, it was one of the least dynamic tracks on Echoes. “Heaven,” “Killing,” even “Olio” were all far more sophisticated. Ignoring the several superior -- though less accessible -- tracks that surrounded “House of Jealous Lovers,” much of what followed was modeled on the energy of the ubiquitous howling single, at the expense of ignoring that it remains one really great hook stretched over many more minutes than it truly deserves. It’s not surprising, then, that albums from everyone from Electric Six to Moving Units wound up faltering because these bands used “Jealous Lovers” as a template: danceable beat, a good bass lead, and some rhythm guitar, choose your minor variation, and stretch.

The Rapture, however, had the good sense to lay low behind the misleading appearance of an oncoming dancepunk tsunami, perhaps due to prescience that the influence of their first great single was misplaced. So they chilled and watched it dribble to shore. For a long time. And now they coast coolly to shore with Pieces of the People We Love, as if they wanted to make sure that they didn’t revive obscene expectations any moments earlier, when we were still latching on to the latest passable “dancepunk-reviving” flavor of the month, either trying to save some face or sincerely believing that no, it was really going to hit now, seriously.

Now, of course, no one with any sense is going to shout revival news from the watchtower. They’ve already been burned. The self-preservation reaction is to meet Pieces with reserve, and qualified, muted praise, if any at all. Which is also an unfortunate reaction, because despite the death of the genre the band helped spawn, The Rapture’s sophomore album deserves at least a yelp of joy. You can hate all the piss-poor permutations that either rode the abortive wave or tried to catch on to some of its wake. But to bring that residual bile to an album at least as arresting as its (don’t apologize for having said so a few years back) strong predecessor is a mistake. Pieces is strangely ambitious and detailed, surprisingly variable, and almost shockingly well thought-out.

I’m always one to tout the blokes who still believe in dynamics and development, who don’t do what the Strokes did on “You Only Live Once” and repeat the exact same verse/chorus twice and call it a real song. The Rapture instead bring an uncannily intelligent approach to arrangements that in lesser hands would be left in numbing Neanderthal dance-land.

Beats change and evolve, as do bass lines, synth squiggles, guitar roles and chorus bursts. “Get Myself into It,” can claim all kinds of points for not just bringing back some brilliantly integrated smooth sax, but for then breaking it down with some guitar plucking and a livewire set of bass line variations towards the song’s end. The boys then deconstruct the final chorus in a sudden striptease before, one by one, putting back on all the sonic garments that constitute its infectious delights, and breezing out of the room on an expertly conducted jam.

What’s to follow? Why, “First Gear,” which steeps the song in a seedy state thanks to its heady, grungy beat, but then turns it into trash glam with some vocal unhinging and shimmering guitar stabs, and finishes the whole stew off with some robotic femme fatale chants and a logically extended coda. The musical quality, improbably enough, never really dips from then on out, though the variations on the danceable theme are plentiful. Come to think of it, the quality doesn’t really dip before “First Gear.” Opener “Don Go Do It,” is the best back-from-hiatus signal flare in recent memory, fronting the kind of chorus hook -- Luke Jenner’s vocals melded with a mimicking guitar line, mixed with a chorus interjection -- that would have exploded hipster heads three years ago. And then the band follows up with another great hook right afterwards, a cascading chorus swoon that’s almost unnecessarily good. The motherfucker (Jenner, that is) even does the classic Michael Jackson “HEEE!” on “The Devil” which alone would have earned it a place on the album, even without the bass warp details and huffing and puffing and interlocking pieces that progressively come to dominate the whole damn thing. “The Sound’s” chorus doesn’t even bother with words -- it’s just a tightly controlled lightning-whip of maximum overdrive guitar chords. Jenner just howls on top of it, and the effect is blissful.

For all the awkward praise that The Rapture have gotten in the past for being, essentially, homeboys who sucked at their instruments but made fun music anyway, Pieces is, musically, quite substantial. More polished, yes -- guitar chords or notes are virtually never unintentionally or outright missed -- but let’s not love sloppy music for its own sake. Rhythmically these guys are on point; they know how to intensify pace using bass, synths, and rhythm guitar like supercharged accelerators. Which wasn’t really a secret on Echoes, but the precise breadth of their ability to work with rhythmic dynamism goes far beyond mere cowbell or hyper-strums here. And their layering is no joke, either, as “Whoo! Alright - Yeah...Uh Huh” proves in fine style. The drumming closes out the entire package with wildly inventive variations, providing the initial ruminating pace of “Calling Me”’s vocal stylings and intermittently struck guitars with a counterpoint of thrillingly unpredictable complexity. Wait, no, Jenner’s vocals really close it out – he’s no less manic on certain tracks than we’ve come to expect, but still can rupture expectations with unexpectedly sexy electronically treated croons or low end intonations.

One really noticeable problem, and only one: the decipherable lyrics are often ridiculous. Rhyming often occurs for its own sake. “Above” and “love” are rhymed at least five or six times, and in more than one song, which is a party foul, but, given the song quality that surrounds it, a forgivable one. The line “What the fuck / Just bad luck,” does make a regrettable appearance. There’s more where that came from.

But even the lyrics, while certainly not a positive point about the album, manage to communicate a band that never took itself as seriously as the people (us critics) who wanted to load it with standard-bearer responsibilities. In that indie rock ocean, to accept that load is to guarantee capsizing. I don’t doubt that if the group wanted to be cynical or profound, they would do so in fine stifling fashion. Instead, these unexpected heroes of an “eh” year in music have chosen to take their music -- not themselves -- seriously, refusing to force an ebullient, funky style into an untoward or awkward direction to please the times. So, wherever the dance-punk cemetery is, The Rapture is not in it. If you ever apologized for liking them before, the time to recant is now. You know, before they become cool again. Amir Nezar :: 22 September 2006 |                

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