y roommate, relying solely on his self-proclaimed "cultural sixth sense," keeps going on about the '80s. "The latest wave of denary nostalgia has arrived!" he confidently declares, citing numerous television commercials, films like The Wedding Singer and American Psycho, and music by Alien Ant Farm and the Neptunes as evidence. But the nation's aesthetes and hipsters look to New York for guidance in all things "in," and the city's collective (musical) voice has emphatically adopted the late '70s as its latest archetype of cool. Bands are appropriating everything from those formerly passe plural names (the Strokes, the French Kicks, the Ex-Models) to nearly every sound of the era, including punk, post-punk, disco, funk, and no-wave, melanging it all with the high energy levels that characterized those wildly inventive years.
I, for one, am particularly ecstatic about how the most prominent of these groups has captured the mainstream's attention. The Strokes aren't my favorite new band by a long shot, but given the choice, I'd much rather watch/listen to them than pretty much anything else on MTV or commercial radio. And whenever you see an act that good in the limelight, that usually means the real envelope-pushers are lurking just beneath the surface--and that's exactly the case today. The Liars, residing underground as they do, are one of the most talented acts to emerge from Gotham in this new wave of post-post-punk, and that's high praise considering the overall high quality of the movement. Their debut album manages to push my "rock" and "funk" buttons simultaneously--and, in case it wasn't already obvious, it's more Gang of Four than Chili Peppers.
But come to think of it, I do recall reading the two "-unk" words next to each other in glowing reference to the Liars, an association I had previously only seen applied to RHCP. Those influences both come through on They Threw Us. . ., but this ain't your older brother's punk-funk. Part of the band's genius probably lies (heh heh!) in playing out thekick-hat-snare-hat rhythms of disco on a regular drum kit and allowing the bass to drive most of the songs. Springy funk lines like the one in the main verse of "Grown Men Don't Fall in the River, Just Like That" are the record's skeletal structure, while the guitar spews out syncopated palm-mutes. But the music switches into serious funk mode on the second track, "Mr You're onFire Mr." (Plus points for better-than-average arty song titles as well!) The cheesy electronic claps, cowbells and random noises give a digital update to some ass-movin' disco-inspired post-punk. Sorta like Les Savy Fav + rhythm.
Another one of the Liars' many merits is the surprisingly catchy and anthemic vocals. A lotta post-punk is long on innovation/musical boundary-pushing but short on pop appeal, and while these guys aren't quite ready for TRL, they incorporate many memorable vocal riffs into their already mindblowing instrumental foundations. The singer(s?) isn't hugely distinctive, belting out pomo-isms mainly in a mid-range monotone, but his frenzied yelps mesh well with the frenetic music.
Wait! I just thought of the closest band comparison I can make for these guys, and that's the supremely quirky, spastic and defunct Brainiac. Of course, compared to frontman Timmy Taylor, the Liars' singer sounds a little pedestrian. But then, doesn't everyone?
This record's pretty great but it does have its missteps; namely, one "Loose Nuts on the Veladrome," which was actually the first song I heard by the band. They try to kick it Arab on Radar-style, all chaotic and amorphous and whatnot, but Liars - funk - identifiable rock elements = noise and pure noise != good. And I must inform you that the last track is 30 minutes long (!), thereby deposing the first track off Shellac'sTerraform as Most Pointlessly Long Repetitive Dirge Ever. However, unlike the Shellac track, "This Dust Makes That Mud" would've made a perfectly fine and interesting seven-minute song. But after about 8 minutes in, the song locks into the same looped groove which it proceeds to drive into the ground over the following 22 minutes. But these guys are all about art and pretension, so the joke's probably on me, the hapless reviewer. Oh well, maybe you'll get it.
They Threw Us. . . is like the perfect opposite-sex encounter: brief and 83% sweet but lame enough at the end to make you glad to push "stop." I know that sounds bad, but it's merely a consequence of where the quality falls on the record and in particular the faults of the (atypical, remember) final track. But most of the time I can keep neither my head nor my ass still while this record's on. Hurray for the return of paroxysmal rock! Down with the '80s! Up with the late '70s!