:: Track Listing

1. Nevereverdid
2. It's 5!
3. Tiny Paintings
4. In Case We Die
5. Maybe You Can Owe Me
6. Do the Whirlwind
7. Need to Shout
8. Side Step Gold Speck
9. What's In Store?
10. The Cemetery
11. Wishbone
12. Waking up in Geelong 13. Frenchy, I'm Faking
14. On Corners
15. Rendezvous: Potrero Hill

:: Record Review

Architecture in Helsinki

In Case We Die
(Bar None; 2005)

Rating: 73%
Combined Rating: 77%


I don’t like the Beach Boys. Not one bit. Surfin' Sufari? Fuck that. I envision crushing waves eating surfers alive. Pet Sounds? I hate pets. Fun fun fun in the sun sun sun? Gimme a break. I like my good times under a blacklight, in the deepest darkest hours of the night, with stiff drinks. And with a minimum of silly rhyming.

Show me puppies frolicking in the fields, and I demand some po-mo destruction on that cutesy shit. You see a bunch of sweet choirboy voices, and I see pansy eunuchs. You love God? I love Nietzsche.

An awkward moment ensues.

After all, the only commonality between Architecture in Helsinki and the Beach Boys is that both can sound awfully twee. But that’s my point. (Bias Alert!) I can’t stand twee. I don’t like cute pop. Polluted as I am by the Modern Age, adorable, purely happy music drives me up the fucking wall. Sure, you may be all kinds of high, but the world actually kind of sucks out there.

But no matter how much the sweetness of In Case We Die sickens you (me), it’s difficult to get around the fact that it’s a really good album. Kind of like the difficulty of claiming that the Beach Boys were not, in fact, a great band.

So they may not be my cup of tea, but it’s unarguable that AIH make solid pop. Their jaunty, buoyant rhythms carry a variety of rich arrangements, constituted at various points by amalgams of electric guitars, organs, horns, strings, or any one of a smorgasbord of junkyard instruments. The group makes writing a catchy melody seem as easy as walking, and their handbag of hooks is surprisingly deep; vocal, guitar, horn, and even flute hooks nearly always anchor their seemingly whimsical songwriting. “It’s 5!” is nearly bloated with memorable passages and an indelible sweetness. “Do the Whirlwind” bounces along on an infectious rhythm that’s aptly augmented by joyous horns and charming keyboards. And “French, I’m Faking,” a strong highlight, plays nice and then naughty with dynamics, starting and stopping with guitar splurges and horn shouts, rippling across a snare roll, and finally culminating in a shining mix of choral voices and operatic orchestration.

Of all of these tracks, only one strays from their jubilant energy, and that, oddly enough, is opener “Neverevereverdid.” But its initial sobriety and serenity are careless interrupted by a drunken carousel of eclectic compositions -- even a pop-punk passage that trades three beaten chords for triumphant brass and childlike vocals. The group can’t stay somber for more than a minute and a half, and the rest of the album is an almost perfectly positive trip.

But while it’s hard to find fault with the group’s hooks and melodies, it’s fair to say that this much musical whimsy can be trying. In particular, the barely-reined-in schizophrenia involved in AIH’s many stylistic jumps can overshadow their pristine pop proclivities; “Neverevereverdid,” for instance, lacks little in drive but a lot in thematic cohesion. And then there’s the question of self-consciousness, which is a cynical point to pick at, one which an album this blithe invites; AIH’s stylistic jumps can seem as much a gesture for its own sake rather than for any sort of real purpose. Further, this candy can be just plain over-syrupy. Yes, some naiveté can be charming as an escape from that nasty real world, but an album that acts as an escape without ever really dealing with that real world ultimately feels a bit hollow.

Yet these points can’t do much more than make a dent in In Case We Die’s sheer sense of craftsmanship. Think what you (I) want about its theatricality, its twee -- at base, it’s a technically accomplished album, and if you’re willing to give yourself over to it, or do lots of drugs, a charming ride. It won’t melt my cold, dead heart, but it can boast the success of having chipped away just the tiniest sliver of titanium alloy from it. Now give me my Brecht and my Joy Division, and leave me alone. Amir Nezar :: 20 April 2005 |