Her Majesty the Decemberists

by

The Decemberists

Edit

On paper the Decemberists sound just ghastly: grad students play dress up, check into the Neutral Milk Hotel, and play the Chuck Dickens/Pirate Jenny songbook as sung by Rufus Wainwright imitating Neil Young.

Yet it was love at first accordion wheeze when I encountered them as an opening act. On stage, they're the sweet American cousins of the Mekons and the Go-Betweens, radiating intelligence and shades of dark anarchy in everything they do. I got 2002's excellent Castaways & Cutouts at the merch table that night and immediately fell in love with the haunting (literally) opening track "Leslie Ann Levine," a lament from a dead girl's point-of-view.

Specters from the past are the key to Her Majesty the Decemberists. Songwriter Colin Meloy looks through their eyes to shed light on the darkness of our age. The conceit confuses at first: what are whalebone corsets, radios, telephones and pantaloons doing in the same song? Is that '70s wah-wah guitar and crunchy electric piano I hear amid sea chanteys and old country reels? The Decemberists' Victorian mirror provides a tantalizing, innocent and often deceiving distance to songs about sexual slumming ("Shanty for the Arethusa"), voyeurism and Onanism ("Billy Liar"), emotional sadism ("The Bachelor and the Bride"), the homoerotic thrill of warmongering - just ask Bush and Blair - ("The Soldiering Life"); and a love song to that ultimate city as strumpet, L.A. ("Los Angeles, I'm Yours").

That last song is the album's real standout. Strumming Elton John's Bennie and the Jets vamp on his guitar, Meloy's 18th century busker stands as an evangelical emissary on the corner of Sunset and Vine who blushes as girls with bare midriffs and boys with jeans nearly to their knees slouch on by. ("I can see your undies!" he intones, hilariously.) As a classic sunny West Coast pop arrangement builds and swells around him (think Stevie Wonder meets Richard Carpenter), Meloy summons cherubs and seraphim to help him dispel the stink of burnt cocaine and rotting morals before crying out ecstatically to the city as whore who both attracts and repels him, "Los Angeles, my love!", as if loving her might save her. If you've ever spent time actively engaged with the City of Lost Angels, this song will wrench your heart.

I'll preface my review by saying that I have yet to jump on the Decemberists' bandwagon. Although I enjoyed Castaways and Cutouts, I was hardly washed away like many people seem to have been. It was a bit of a disappointment, as I have always been a huge Neutral Milk Hotel Fan and was excited to hear about a band cracked up to be so similar. Perhaps then, I was the victim of my own expectations. Anyway, this album doesn't even match up with their debut. As in the debut, the lyrics are very interesting (definitely the strongpoint of both albums), but the music itself just doesn't seem inviting enough. The whole album borders on being catchy, but it never quite hooked me. Its certainly worth a listen though, and I'm sure that the Decemberists will eventually release a stunning album. Just not yet.