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Hype is a bitch; it embraces you one moment and pretends it doesn't know you the next. Just ask The Walkmen. Six years ago-
in their former incarnation Jonathan Fire*Eater- they were boosted to the front of people's minds by a succession of sold-out NYC shows and a major label bidding war. The Rolling Stones-turned art rockers eventually signed with Dreamworks and released a decent full-length that critics mostly adored and the record-buying public mostly ignored. Wolf Songs for Lambs was simply too weird for its own good. The band caved under the pressure to be the next big thing and called it quits in 1998.
Three-fifths of Fire*Eater- organist Walter Martin, drummer Matt Barrick and guitarist Paul Maroon–took their remaining advance money from Dreamworks and built
Marcata Recording, a 24-track analog recording studio in Brooklyn, and filled it with their vintage equipment. They recruited bassist Peter Bauer and Martin's cousin Hamilton Leithauser (both of The Recoys) to round out a new band. The quintet
practiced, played out, recorded in their studio and released an EP followed by a full-length on Startime
International Records (also home also to French Kicks) to little critical response. It's taken listeners-
myself included- some time to warm to the group's sound, which at times is even more
abstract, sparse and archaic than Fire*Eater. And so a band that in its former incarnation was favored by the press and backed by a major label's hype machine now finds itself at square one. And square one leaves you with little to discuss but the music. The Walkmen-
who in the rare few interviews I've read are not bitter but rather happy to be free of the stress and expectations-
would rather not focus on the band they used to be and the fortunes of yesteryear. They wanna talk about
today, the record they just released and listening to their music, I can see why.
If you've yet to purchase Everyone Who Pretended to Like Me Is Gone, the group's debut
full-length, you're missing out on one of the year's truly brilliant, under-the-radar releases. If you've yet to see The Walkmen
live, do so. Dressed in black with their drummer bouncing off his stool in a bright red
shirt, the band's charisma is undeniable, personified by tall and lanky crooner Leithauser and his subtle standoffish cool (think Mark E.
Smith, not Julian Casablancas). I suppose you could say the group benefits from a bit of the NYC flair that the press drools over; but a little style goes a short while without a lotta substance to back it up. The band's return to the recorded forum comes in the form of this split four-song EP with fellow
New Yorkers Calla.
"Look Out the Window," which opens the EP, is as close to Television as you're going to get without sounding completely derivative. Maroon and Leithauser's guitars play melodic tag ala Tom Verlaine and Richard
Lloyd, setting the bare bones structure for Leithauser's sexy vocals to ramble on about his lover who's gone M.I.A. The casual listener will make a comparison to The
Strokes, but that's simply lazy. "Look Out the Window" is a perfect example of The Walkmen's mastery of
restraint, use of tasteful melody and ability to make four instruments sound like four distinct voices.
(Wait, is that a harmonica? Make that five.) They rock out, almost to mock the art of playing ringing joyous
chords, over the brief chorus. The song ends in with five staccato snare slaps joined by Maroon's bombastic accompanying chords.
On "Here Comes Another Day," the guitars take the lead once again, storming out of the gates with a Link Wray-like rumbling of noise before dissolving into softly strummed chords textured by lap steel guitar. The rhythm section maintains a faint casual
beat, centering your attention once again on Leithauser as he relates the character sketch of a guy who bumbled his way to getting dumped. The
ballad, which would sound comfortably at home alongside Billy J. Kramer's
"Trains and Boats and Planes," is a marked departure for a band that shows no boundary in its diversity.
But enough about The Walkmen; there's still another band to discuss. I'd never heard of Calla prior to this
release, but speaking with French Kicks after a recent show it seems I'm a bit behind the curve for not knowing of them. Either NYC is giving birth to an insane number of talented bands right
now, or the hype is just shining a light in the right direction at the right
time, because Calla are yet another NYC band worthy of your attention. This EP serves as a precursor to Calla's third full-length (to be released on Arena Rock in January). Comprised of a trio of Texas-natives turned
New Yorkers, Calla's sound reminds of early American Analog Set in its ability to pull from both old-time country and ‘80s psychedelia. Presenting a
loose, sensuous offering in "Don't Hold Your Breath," Calla adheres to The Walkmen's less is more
theory, knowing when to layer the distortion and when to lull you with melody. Wayne
B. Magruder's (ex-Bowery Electric) shaker-heavy drum beat coupled with Aurelio Valle's
soft, gravelly vocals create an aura not unlike Starflyer 59 or Spiritualized.
But less you think these boys can't rock, Calla takes a huge risk in covering a song by German prog-rockers Can. Calla's shortened take on Can's
"Mother Sky" (from the 1970 release Soundtracks, their first recording with Japanese vagabond Damo Suzuki) follows Can's lead in a straightforward
manner, with Valle's gentle voice capably filling Suzuki's shoes. Valle repeats the phrase
"I think madness is too pure like mother's sky" while the band regurgitates Can's
sharp, angular earthen guitar attack. Clocking in at over eight minutes
, "Mother Sky" will likely intrigue whether you're acquainted with Can or not. Calla pays an honest homage to the band with a vigorous performance.
Surprisingly, Calla steals the show on this EP by providing the only song that chews you up and spits you out. In the course of 19-minutes we go from the abstruse pop-rock of The Walkmen to the tonal destruction of
Calla, and somehow it makes sense. Chalk it up to whatever "it" is that NYC bands seem to have an abundance of these days. Some call it talent. I'd agree.
Reviewed by Doug Hoepker
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I have a soft spot for this band because I helped to book them in their former incarnation – the much-hyped Jonathan Fire*Eater – at a basement show in
Peoria, IL some four years ago. To make a long story short, the basement show ended up being an attic show that the cops broke up about six songs into their set. (We also ate our shorts on that
show, but the band was gracious to play for gas money and an air-conditioned home to sleep
in, so all was well.) I feel a bit of guilt, to this day, and that guilt propelled me to drive to Chicago to see the new lineup
(organ, guitar and drums intact with a new vocalist and bassist) perform at the Abbey Pub. Guilt
aside, they were spectacular – as is
Everyone Who Pretended to Like Me Is Gone.
The Walkmen's debut (which has already garnered the band some attention from
Alternative Press and MTV2) is a likely departure from what you've been listening to
lately, and hence will ultimately fail you if you don't allow a proper amount of time for the group's sound to fester inside your head. What The Walkmen are doing is not
simplistic, naive or a derivative of Jonathan Fire*Eater. It's a calculated
risk, not another retro rip-off rock band ala The Strokes (despite the media's eagerness to position NYC as a current rock ‘n' roll
hotbed, hence grouping all of the city's rock bands together). Paul Maroon's psychedelic garage-rock guitar coupled with arcane
organ, sustained piano and a truly interesting rhythm section create a rock ‘n' roll sound familiar yet sincerely unique. It's as if the band sat down with the
Nuggets box set and hand-picked a hundred of their favorite instances and then meshed those together into something all their own. Add to the music Hamilton Leithauser's Bono-like croon and urban coming-of-age tales and you've got an incredibly compelling sound. The Walkmen create an atmospheric noise – not always song-oriented – that is eerily empty and sonically inspiring. Imagine Joy Division as a less-intense late-‘60s garage band and you're starting to get a sense for what The Walkmen are all about.
Due to the fact Everyone Who Pretended to Like Me Is Gone is so off the beaten path of the current rock ‘n' roll
map, it's quite possible that you'll drop $15 on this album and discover that you absolutely dislike it. But isn't that the kind of risk that makes good rock ‘n' roll inherently compelling in the first place?
RIYL: Jonathan Fire*Eater, garage psych-rock, Joy Division, a flair for the dramatic ala early U2.
Reviewed by Doug Hoepker
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