Album Reviews

You’ll just have to get over the squashed, harmonically truncated and bleached sound that infects much of this musically outstanding album from 2002 (they’ve released more albums since) from this 15 member Canadian collective if you have any hope of enjoying it.

You may think at first that there’s no excuse for this kind of sonic bleach, but it’s purposeful as you’ll discover moving through the tracks, which get warmer, and mellower and more fleshed out as it goes (just don't expect it to get "warm" warm). By the time you get to disc two, you'll realize the producer’s choices are purposeful and not based on inept knob-twiddling. That doesn’t mean you’ll like it though.

I open with the sound because much of it is aural excrement compared to what we call “hi-fi.” I understand that the idea is to make it “modern,” but what a shame to create complex, multi-instrument arrangements and then reduce the harmonics to a few (non) colors, and the dynamics to about a dB or two. The first few tunes will singe the hair in your ears if you have any, yet I swear, these guys and gals are worth it. Just turn the volume down and it will sound better. There’s no point in turning it up anyway since there is zero dynamic range.

Musically, this album explores multiple genres, mixing and matching the familiar with the original. If you like The Arcade Fire (another Canadian group), you will hear an album that came first that shares certain musical gestures and ideas. Surely TAF was inspired by this record—especially that band’s drummer—and when you get to “Shampoo Suicide” you will hear that band’s musical and sonic template.

The album opens with a slow Pink Floydian style instrumental overture, then moves to a mid tempo stomp with vocals but don’t ask me what they are, because I can’t make them out. The singer drools them in a whisper that’s quite affecting so I forgive him, and the engineer shelves the voice so it cover about a sliver of an octave concentrated as a thin percussive flapping of vocal chords. Sounds like torture, but amazingly, it’s not.

The final tune of the side, “Almost Crimes,” kicks in the Arcade Fire vibes big-time, with the singer whining and shrieking an infectious chorus, something about “I told you….” Beyond that I have no idea what he’s saying and that might even be wrong. But again it doesn’t matter: the tune is addicting and I find the need to play it repeatedly. That ten musicians contribute to the arrangement is astounding, since all of them seem to occupy a space harmonically wide enough to fit a high-hat.

Turn over to side two and suddenly with “Looks Just Like The Sun,” you’re hearing Burt Bacharach channeled by way of Billy Corgan. I swear. Even the sound opens up a stitch to accommodate the music, but unless you’re willing to allow the engineer/producer’s sonic conceit you’ll still be grinding your teeth as acoustic guitars, voices, drums and synthesizers all crouch and collide under a low ceiling.

Then it’s on to “Pacific Theme,” which winds up the springs on a squiggly synthesizer and then drops a cheap drum machine into a bossa nova-ish beat and a two chord vamp that’s dreamy and addicting and sounds like “On Broadway” transferred to the tropics. The tune’s arranged for drum machine, harmonica, guitars, trumpet, trombone, percussion, organ, bass and flute, yet still manages to limit the harmonic colors to fewer than the fingers on one hand, but somehow it works a charming spell.

When you get to side three’s opener, the cool “Cause =Time”, the harmonics and dynamics open up and lead singer Kevin Drew’s voice can actually be recognized as human! The next track, “Late Nineties Bedroom Rock For the Missionaries,” actually has deep bass, which has gone missing so far. The drums sound real, the stage deepens and the sound can finally be called “good” in the traditional sense. Only then do you realize that it all sounds “good” taken on the creator’s terms.

Once I understood what he was doing, I began to love the producer’s sonic scheme. I bought this double disc on a store clerk’s recommendation and I admit to playing it incessantly even as the bleached sound scheme repelled me at first.

Lower the volume, listen past the producer’s purposeful glare and edgy scheme and the musical goodness will make its presence felt immediately. Pay attention to what he does with the production as the songs flow by. It’s pretty smart. High Llamas on mescaline? Bacharach/Corgan? Whatever. I am hooked by the eclectic music making and the carefully drawn arrangements, never mind how they’ve mostly been etched in glass. Now on to the rest of Broken Social Scene’s catalog.