Why I Don’t Hate Vampire Weekend

I don’t believe Americans invented the ill-informed, knee-jerk reaction, but I know we’ve perfected it. Ask yourself if people who have the time to go to D.C. for a week and wave (often misspelled) signs are actually working enough to make enough money to be “Taxed Enough Already.” Just a for-instance. Politics is an easy field to which I can point and say, “Behold, y’all: ignorance abounds.” But fans of music are not immune, as I have found out on more than one occasion. Sometimes, if you don’t like a band that other people like, they’ll hate you for it. I don’t understand this myself, but it happens. And sometimes music fans like to react to things before they’ve heard them. I didn’t want to write too much about how people hate Vampire Weekend for their Ivy-League pedigree, their elitist references to “kefir” (goes good with arugala, Tea Partiers), or their globe-trotting sound because every Vampire Weekend review discusses that shit ad nauseum. But every review discusses that shit because there are more than a few people whose knee-jerk reaction is to dismiss Vampire Weekend as privileged posers, allowing their perception of the band as people to color their perception of the band as musicians. (It should be noted that plenty of great musicians are/were horrible people. Ask John Lennon’s kids what kind of father he was. Ask Joey Ramone what kind of friend Johnny Ramone was*. And so on.)

But here’s the thing: I didn’t want to like Vampire Weekend at first either. I felt snob-guilt for liking “A-Punk,” which I heard for the first time (gasp!) on a non-NPR-affiliated radio station. And I still listen to their first album and it’s still fun and interesting. And I wanted to cut myself off there and resist the urge to purchase Contra on the day it came out (I did read an NPR review of the album before I bought it. Cred restored? I don’t care). But who was I kidding?

I just can’t quit Vampire Weekend, to borrow a phrase from a vastly overrated film. The reason I can’t is because Vampire Weekend makes very – very - compelling pop music. That is due in no small part to the arranging abilities of a multi-instrumentalist whom I affectionately nicknamed Batman when discussing their first album. Batman punctuates Vampire Weekend’s hyper pop music with flourishes of wind and string instruments, while Ezra Koenig yelps his sometimes-clever lyrics (he’s no Isaac Brock, but he scores his share of points) and strums his usually-clean guitar. Their sound is not like the sound of other popular acts and I believe they come by their world-music inclinations honestly. So I like them and I like Contra and if you write a review where you say it’s the worst piece of shit you’ve ever heard, I promise I won’t post comments on your blog telling you to shoot yourself or trying to simultaneously abuse you and the English language. The reason I won’t do that is simple: I’m a fucking adult (looking at you -but certainly not all of you – fans of Portugal. The Man).

But enough peripheral bullshit. Let’s talk about Contra, can we? The songs are not drastically different from the songs on Vampire Weekend’s eponymous debut – which is to say, the songs are good. There are one or two slower, more ballady numbers, and Auto-tune rears its ugly head on “California English”, much to my dismay. While I understand the aesthetic choice and there is compelling evidence that Ezra Koenig doesn’t need Auto-tune, I cannot state clearly enough that I loathe Auto-tune at all times under all circumstances. I think it sounds like shit. If Joe Strummer came back to life and told me that Auto-tune cures cancer, AIDS, poverty, and stupidity all at the same time, I would counter that it still sounds like shit and has no fucking business in my music. Ever. Also, Kanye West used Auto-tune on his entire last album and he doesn’t seem to be less stupid from where I sit. My gripe about the Auto-tune is smaller than it sounds, though – it (just barely) doesn’t ruin “California English” and certainly doesn’t ruin the rest of the album. Contra is similar to Vampire Weekend, but Contra is musically smarter. This is analogous to how I feel being newly 30 – it’s like being 20 again, but I’m smarter. I hope.

The only real question I have for Vampire Weekend is, can they pull this music off live? I might have to see them at Coachella to find out, but it looks like I’m headed back there this year, so that won’t be a problem. It doesn’t sound to me like Koenig sings anything particularly challenging for his vocal range, so what I’ll be looking for his how they pull off all of the nifty little instrumental flourishes. I predict heavy sequencing.

The bottom line is, if you liked the first Vampire Weekend record, Contra will probably also please you. If you didn’t like their debut, you’re probably not going to find much to change your mind here. If you don’t like Vampire Weekend because of where they’re from or what college they attended, or how “privileged”** you think they are, I think you’re cheating yourself out of some great pop music, but that’s your business.

*A bit of explanation for those of you who have, for some reason, not seen The End of the Century: Johnny’s wife was, at one time Joey Ramone’s girlfriend. Johnny Ramone wooed her away from Joey who, by way of passive aggressive vengeance, wrote “The KKK Took My Baby Away”, ostensibly about his guitarist Johnny. I honestly don’t know how the Ramones stayed together as long as they did, given how little they seemed to like each other.

**Anybody who gets to make music for a living is privileged, as is anyone who can go to the occasional (or frequent) concert. If you have time to troll the internet to defend the bands you love and dis the bands you hate, you are also privileged. To my knowledge, the dudes in Vampire Weekend are not the sons of cable TV moguls or oil barons or former pop stars. Even if the guys in Vampire Weekend were born rich, it makes no sense to hate them for it. They clearly used their privilege to hone what is, all else aside, remarkable musical talent. On the other hand, it does make sense to hate Paris Hilton because she’s famous for being born rich and has used her privilege to simultaneously attract new and exotic STDs, launch an abortive acting career, and launch an even more abortive (if possible) musical “career.”

This Emo is Airborne

When I tell people that they should get off their asses and read Underworld and White Noise, I shit you not, the response I typically get is a frown and a question: “Oh. Is that the book that inspired the movie?” And part of me dies. Underworld, the only one that exists in my world anyway, is an amazing novel by Don DeLillo, a man whose literary gifts are unsurpassed. Literally every page of that book is a treat to read. Apparently, there is a horrid movie about werewolves or something that shares a title with DeLillo’s 1997 masterpiece but anyone who knows me (or has talked to me for five minutes) knows I’d never tell you to read a book that could inspire such awfulness.

I get the same question about White Noise (awful Michael Keaton movie where he hears dead people). White Noise is another great DeLillo novel which prominently features an airborne toxic event but is not about that event.

Say you’re a band from L.A., one of music’s biggest talent vacuums (people here still care about Axl Rose and Motley Crue), and you glance through White Noise. I know what you’re thinking: “Dude! The Airborne Toxic Event would be a hella tight name for a band! We can give props to a good writer and let our listeners know that we know how to read!” So you name your band The Airborne Toxic Event.

The Airborne Toxic Event did grab my interest, but understand something here: if you name your band after anything written by one of my favorite authors, you had better be fucking amazing (if any band names themselves after something out of Kurt Vonnegut, they have to be Hold Steady awesome to impress me). It is not enough to me that you can prove you flipped through a book – your band’s awesomeness has to be directly proportional to the awesomeness of the book you’re ripping off.

From DeLillo’s White Noise: “Murray said, ‘I don’t trust anybody’s nostalgia but my own. Nostalgia is a product of dissatisfaction and rage. It’s a settling of grievances between the present and the past. The more powerful the nostaliga, the closer you come to violence. War is the form nostalgia takes when men are hard-pressed to say something good about their country.’”

Do you think, dear six people who read this, that there is anything even close to that awesome on The Airborne Toxic Event’s debut album? Not even close. Mikel Jollet is the smokey baritone who bleats out the songs – at his best, he sounds like Matt Berninger and makes me want to listen to The National and at his worst, he sounds like an emo version of Mike Ness and makes me want to punch him in the balls.

The Airborne Toxic Event, to be fair, is not a horrible album. But is by no means good. When Jollet screams “I’m such a bore” on “Happiness is Overrated” (that song title should warn you what you’re in for), I’m quite inclined to agree with him. You’ve heard this album before – the best bits and the worst. The best bits are The Arcade Fire meets Tapes ‘n’ Tapes and the worst bits are The Plain White T’s meets every other emo band on the planet.  Let’s do an experiment: listen to the first minute of “Wishing Well” from The Airborne Toxic Event and then listen to the first minute of “Neighborhood #1″ from The Arcade Fire’s Funeral. Now multiply the feeling you get by 10 (the number of tracks on The Airborne Toxic Event). The feeling you end up with should tell you exactly how you’ll feel about The Airborne Toxic Event as a band. They’re sort  of a perfection of mediocrity, the sort of thing that L.A. would mistake for greatness (Los Angeles is also home to The Red Hot Chili Peppers, a band that should just fucking stop… right… now.). They’ve even managed to trick a few reviewers here and there, but there is not a single track on this album that doesn’t make me wish I was listening to a band with a better singer (like The National) and/or a better lyricist (The Arcade Fire, The National, Okkervil River, and I could go on ad infinitum.) And repeated listens to The Airborne Toxic Event reveal something even more sinister – this music is emo, turned down and diluted by the Arcade Fire influence, but it’s emo none the less. I’m sure Mr. Jollet wants to tell you he’s inhabiting the characters of his songs or whatever, but take a lesson from Matt Berninger (does Mr. Berninger have the best voice in music right now? I think he might) – there’s no emo-quiver when Berninger sings “I leaned on the wall/ the wall leaned away”. His wariness is unfaked and unflinching, which is why he doesn’t need to scream very often (although, when he does, as on “Abel” and “Mr. November,” it’s pretty goddamn impressive).

Do you know what Mumblecore is? It’s this new movie genre (I guess) that likes to depict teenagers discussing somewhat deep things and bemoaning their lackluster love lives. It shoots for a superficial depth, the sort of thing that appeals to people who are blown away by books like The Four Agreements and who have read only one poet: Robert fucking Frost. The Airborne Toxic Event is like a mumblecore band (although they don’t mumble that much) – it’s a sort of safe poetry for people who can’t get far enough below the surface to crack open Boxer (best album of 2007) or read John Berryman. Every track on The Airborne Toxic Event screams “Trying too hard,” and its prepackaged pensiveness torpedoes any chance its (half-way) decent musicians have to propel the album in any really interesting direction. It’s the risk you run, naming your band after something awesome by an awesome writer: you’ve instantly asked yourself to be compared to that writer and when that writer is Don DeLillo, you’re bound to be found wanting.

Beck = The New StrongSad

“Imaginary Secretary?”

“Yes, Mr. Chorpenning?”

“Get in here. And bring me a copy of Beck’s record contract, will ya?”

“Right away, Mr. Chorpenning.”

<Imaginary Secretary enters, hears Modern Guilt blasting from my computer speakers.>

“Is this a Joy Division cover band?”

“No, Imaginary Secretary. This is the new Beck record.”

“Beck? Isn’t he the guy who did ‘Sexx Laws’?”

“The same. Lemme see that contract.”

<I look over the contract>

“Hmm….”

“What is it, Mr. Chorpenning?”

“I was looking for some indication that Beck has to keep making albums. He’s not obligated to make an album a year for the next ten million years. And yet…”

“And yet?”

“Listen to this album, Imaginary Secretary. Tell me what you think, just as a first impression.”

“I like the beats -”

“That’s DJ Danger Mouse. Good stuff.”

“Right, but the vocals… it sounds like Beck doesn’t really want to be there.”

“Exactly, Imaginary Secretary. This guy is sitting in a studio with a modern beat god, the guy who pulled The Black Keys out of their little rut. And he sounds like he’s at the fucking dentist. What gives?”

“You think he’s burned out?”

“Maybe. Maybe the Scientology isn’t helping – no big surprise there. But this is Beck and Danger Mouse – I should have a hard-on with goosebumps on it for this album.”

“And?”

“Nothin’. It’s like seeing Glenn Beck wrestle Rush Limbaugh naked in kiddie pool full of pudding. I was more thrilled by the new Del the Funky Homosapien album.”

“Sorry to hear that, Mr. Chorpenning.”

“Not your fault, Imaginary Secretary.”

“Is there anything that can be done, sir?”

“Usually, I would prescribe working with Danger Mouse for something like this. But it hasn’t helped Beck one bit. I’m not sure what else there is.”

“Perhaps having Rick Rubin produce mostly acoustic sessions of cover songs?”

“Perhaps, but Beck’s not nearly old enough for that to work.”

“This song is pretty good. What’s it called?”

“‘Profanity Prayers.’ It’s my favorite song on the album too. But one out of ten is not a good score for Beck.”

“This is better than The Information.“

“What the hell is The Information?”

“The last Beck album, Mr. Chorpenning.”

“Oh… oh! The one after Guero and that shitty remix album?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yeah, that sucked. Modern Guilt doesn’t suck. It’s… well, it’s kinda too sad to suck.”

“Maybe he’s too distracted by the state of the modern world to be able to make the bouncy, dancey music he used to make.”

“Maybe, Imaginary Secretary. But doesn’t he realize that when the world really shits the bed, we need good, positive art more than ever? Or at least loud, rebellious art. Modern Guilt is neither.”

“He must not realize that, sir.”

“Maybe he needs to listen to The Hold Steady.”

“Do you think it will help?”

“I don’t know, Imaginary Secretary. Maybe he’s a lost cause.”

“Didn’t he do a mildly depressing album earlier in his career?”

“He did two – Mutations and Sea Change. But they were beautiful depressing albums, and they had their moments of levity. But Modern Guilt sounds like Danger Mouse made a real effort on the music and Beck made no effort on the songs. It’s really fucking half-hearted.”

“Perhaps he just needs a break.”

“I think he does, Imaginary Secretary. Maybe go back and listen to Stereopathic Soul Manure, get his bearings again.”

“But if he takes a break, Mr. Chorpenning, isn’t there a possibility that he’ll retreat deeper into Scientology to help him?”

“I see where you’re going with this. His comeback album will be produced by Tom Cruise and have subliminal messages about Thetans and Xenu and all that horseshit… wait a minute!”

“What is it, Mr. Chorpenning?”

“What is Danger Mouse working on right now?”

“I don’t know, sir. I’m sure it’s awesome.”

“You don’t know, Imaginary Secretary? I don’t know either. And do you know why we don’t know?”

“No, sir. I’m afraid I’m at a loss on that.”

<I slap my forehead with a mixture of surprise and disgust>

“It’s so obvious! We don’t know what Danger Mouse is doing right now because the Scientologists have him! He’s a brilliant producer; obviously, he heard Beck’s vocal takes and suggested that maybe reading Dianetics and moping isn’t helping Beck out any, Tom Cruise and his merry band of goons take umbrage, and boom! Danger Mouse is being held hostage by the Scientologists, who have obviously programmed some sort of mopey poison into this Beck record.”

“Why would they do that, sir?”

“Because, Imaginary Secretary! The Scientologists, like all fundamentalist douchebags, think that they have the only viable solution to all of life’s mysteries. In other words, they cannot accept that you and I could possibly be happy without following the drunken, drug-fueled ramblings of L. Ron Hubbard. They need us to be miserable so that they can trot in with their insane books of half-assed monkey-science and save the day! If we’re miserable without Scientology, it will convince them that they’re right!” <I clench my fist and shake it at the sky> “Scientologist bastards!”

“You know, Mr. Chorpenning, what you’re saying makes a certain amount of sense.”

“It does. This record is poison, Imaginary Secretary. We must cleanse our ears. Fetch either the new Hold Steady album, the Titus Andronicus record, anything by Pulp, or London Calling. No. Wait. Fetch all of those. And bring Mule Variations while you’re at it. We can’t be too careful on this one.”

“Right away, sir.”

<Imaginary Secretary begins her exit but is stopped by:>

“Oh, Imaginary Secretary?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Fetch also my baseball bat. I’m going to rescue DJ Danger Mouse from the Scientologists.”

“Very good sir.”

Am I Too Happy to Like Death Cab For Cutie?

If you were single and bummin’ even slightly when Death Cab for Cutie released Transatlanticism in 2003 (is that the right year? I don’t care), you probably got a bit of a thrill out of hearing Ben Gibbard sullenly sing, “So this is the new year/ And I don’t feel any different.” And if you liked good music at all when Death Cab released Plans in 2006 (and the incomprehensible single “Soul Meets Body” along with it – ugh), you probably went home and gave Transatlanticism another couple of spins.

My friend Zac has opined to me on many an occasion that now that he’s in a happy, long-term, committed relationship, he just has no need to listen to Death Cab for Cutie. I can see his point – I don’t really listen to their good old stuff anymore, despite the fact that I know the music is good. I certainly never consciously reached a decision: “Wow. I’m satisfied enough with my romantic situation that I will no longer listen to Death Cab for Cutie.” It didn’t help that Plans, Death Cab’s major-label debut, was a phoned in affair with one of the worst radio singles ever. I didn’t need Plans to serve the same purpose that Transatlanticism did (and Transatlanticism is one of my all-time lonely-guy albums) so I could look at it for the music without having to ride any emotional ebbs and flows that might come along with it. Good thing, too. Apart from “I Will Follow You Into the Dark” (great song, dumb premise), there’s not much to remember about Plans.

So when I found out that Narrow Stairs was coming from Gibbard and company this year, I really had to wonder if I was going to bother with the thing. I heard that their first single was 8 minutes long and I was actually encouraged by this – Plans was a safe record, way too safe. The fact that Death Cab was leading off with an 8 minute single (their longest song ever for those of you keeping score at home) signaled to me that they may have gotten some of their balls back. Early Death Cab (listen to it) is a quirky affair; Plans was a Coldplay album. Narrow Stairs doesn’t completely undo the adult contemporary feel of Plans but it’s not the tepid listen that Plans was either.

So let’s talk about that 8 minute single, “I Will Possess Your Heart.” I’m gonna go out on a limb and predict that this song, should it become a hit (is it a hit? I don’t listen to the radio), will join R.E.M.’s “The One I Love” (not a love song) and “Losing My Religion” (not about religion) as one of the most misunderstood hits in the history of modern radio. It’s a stalker anthem, building around a menacing bass-line and sung by Gibbard in a cold, detached, “I’ve got something for you in my van, little girl” kind of way. I’m serious, ladies – if a dude calls your local top 40 station and dedicates this song to you, fucking run.

The rest of Narrow Stairs is leaner than “I Will Possess Your Heart,” and reflects the fact that for this album, Death Cab tried to record as much as possible as a live and entire band. It’s a good way to go and the music thrives because of it. I’m not really gonna go into a whole track-by-track thing because it’s a Death Cab album and the songs are all about love and death and empty beds and et cetera. You know, the shit that kid on The OC was all about or whatever.

Narrow Stairs is Death Cab for Cutie realizing that they can be the same band on a big label and it’s an enjoyable listen, which I actually did not expect. I’m not even going to bother with the new Coldplay album but I will arbitrarily declare Narrow Stairs better than it. So there!

Vampire Weekend

Did The Police reunion tour actually yield a new album? you wonder to yourself as you’re walking, maybe through Harvard Square, maybe passing the Redline bar where the Harvard kids kick it. Because you could swear, that music, ever-so-slightly reggae-tinged, sounds like a Police album.

Only better somehow. So it can’t be a reunion album, ’cause no one’s reunion album is that great (Dinosaur Jr.’s Beyond notwithstanding). And, if you get by the bouncer who is enforcing a dress code on a Wednesday night, if you hang around and listen to all of Vampire Weekend’s eponymous debut, you’ll realize that comparing them to The Police was almost as cruel as the English dramas that Ezra Koenig sings about on “Oxford Comma”.

Please note, y’all: if I say your band sounds like The Police, I mean your band sounds like some coat-tail riding, hack bullshit. So it’s not, strictly speaking, complimentary. Check Return of the Last Gang In Town, the excellent Clash biography, and you’ll see what I mean about The Police.

So it’s good news for you and me and especially for Vampire Weekend that their album is not really as Police-y as it might sound upon a first listen. It does have some of that jangly reggae guitar sound on it, and the first three tunes (“Mansard Roof,” “Oxford Comma,” and their hit – I guess – “A-Punk”) do little to dispel the notion that these guys are like a sophisticated Dispatch picking at Bob Marley’s carcass for scraps of a revolution. But “A-Punk,” in all it’s under 3-minute glory, begins to reveal the imagination at work behind Vampire Weekend. Those are flutes you’re hearing in there, kids, and they’re arranged by someone who knows what they’re doing.

That someone is – no shit – Rostam Batmanglij. That may or may not be a stage name. I hope it isn’t. Anyway. Batmanglij, who I’ll call Batman for short, has the longest instrumental credit on the record and is solely credited for the arrangements. Where Koenig’s bored-college-kid (in “Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa,” the narrator wants to fuck until he gets the sense that it’s all forced: “this feels so unnatural/ peter gabriel too”) lyrics might make for steeply diminishing returns in a more constrained setting, they actually fly pretty well over Batman’s delightfully intelligent instrumental arrangements. Strings, flutes, synthesizers, all float about over the tight rhythm section of Chris Baio and Christopher Tomson, making Vampire Weekend a thoroughly enjoyable listen throughout.

And, lest you get the wrong idea from the previous paragraph, Koenig is a pretty good singer, with a good sense of melody. And he means what he’s saying, which always scores points with me. Turns an all right phrase here and there (that Peter Gabriel line is a favorite, confirming both my belief that there is nothing natural about Peter Gabriel and my suspicion that it is impossible to enjoy – or even have – sex while Gabriel’s music is playing). Koenig declares with zeal on “Walcott”, the best track on the album, that “Hyannisport is a ghetto” and even slaps the clever, “Oh your collegiate grief has left you dowdy in sweatshirts” on the end of the only really shitty song on this record, the insufferable “One (Blake’s Got a New Face)”.

As alluded to earlier, this is definitely the kind of album that will find its way into the CD players of a certain breed of frat-dick (like the first Gorillaz album, anything by Bob Marley, and Franz Ferdinand’s first one), but you can’t hate a band just ’cause you hate some of the people who listen to them. Vampire Weekend is a clever (and cleverly arranged) pop album from a talented band. It’s not long on substance, but it’s got some good beats and is actually pretty brief. So when you’re being thrown out of RedLine ’cause your sneakers are dirty, remember that half these kids will speak positively (and incorrectly) about how Vampire Weekend is a lot like The Police. They’ll go home and listen to Synchronicity (is that a Police album? I don’t care) and you can go home and listen to the worldbeat people that are probably chilling on the non-IPod mp3 players of Ezra Koenig and Batman.