‘Hey, you gotta hear this band’, I said, sliding the new Art Brut into my Honda’s inconspicuous CD player. Thirty seconds, from the passenger seat, my friend declares how sarcastic Art Brut is. A bit taken back, I encourage him to keep and open mind. We listen to track one, as a voice speaks (not sings): “Formed a band, we formed a band. Look at us…we formed a band!” My friend looks at me. ‘What would you call this, if not sarcasm? This is exactly what sarcasm is.’ I don’t get it. I’m confused and hurt. There must be something he’s missing. Isn’t there? Isn’t this one of the most un-sarcastic thing I’ve ever heard?
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According to Wikipedia: “Cookie mountain is the area above Vanilla Dome and the following levels leading up to Ludwig’s Castle. No secret passages here – but plenty of monty moles!” I have no clue what a “monty mole” is, or if the Mario Brothers have anything to do with this, but Brooklyn’s TV on the Radio are responsible for a fantastic record that’s deliberate, passionate, and impossible to decipher.
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The instant track 1 begins (or at least 4 chords in), Silversun Pickups are in trouble. They’re walking on this beam high up in the air, right? All four of them. On one side of the line – let’s call it the left side – is mediocrity. A huge-ass pasture of it. Upon landing in this pasture, bands are forced to sit in the coarse dry grass, poked by prickers, as huge projection screens show sweetly edited films of their particular names and album titles dissolving completely into the rotated letters running downwards on cd racks in the homes of their target demographic. On the other side of this beam, though, on the right side, is the elevated side: let’s call it the field of coolness. You don’t fall as far as you do on the pasture side. Over in the field you get to chill out on the freshly imported sod and watch proudly as your album rises to the top rows of CD racks all over (in the same bedrooms of your intended audience).
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Aha! Though Google and even Mr. Jeeves were of no assistance, I just figured out what the hell the title to the new Starlight Mints album, Drowaton, means. And I think I’ll leave you with the option of figuring it out yourself (it’s much more gratifying that way, right?). But I will mention that all you need to figure it out is contained within the word. Aside from decoding the title, I have yet to decide whether I like this album. I mean, I can tell you that it’s good. It’s a little too easy to make the Flaming Lips comparison – they’re both from Oklahoma (I know, I forgot about the Midwest too…), the production is top notch, and it’s wacky. But the emotional pull I feel towards say a Soft Bulletin – I just don’t get it from Drowaton. Not that this band deserves to be compared to the Lips all day long. But I’m just saying.
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