All digital 7-inches posted on The Ampeater Review include an A-side and a B-side, just like a classic vinyl 7-inch. Most of the bands that we work with chose an accessible A-side to hook new listeners and a more experimental B-side for the adventurous listener. But Austin-based band The Laughing has taken their selection a bit more seriously and, upping the ante, they’ve presented us with something unprecedented—a concept 7-inch. Get ready for “pop music as envisioned by The Laughing.”

You’re probably scratching your forehead right now and wondering just who the hell The Laughing is and what their vision of pop music could possibly entail. I’ll admit I was a bit skeptical too at first. But this isn’t the vague and far flung pile of bullshit you tried to pass off as your comp lit thesis, it’s a bold vision that The Laughing paints with remarkable clarity and confidence.

The Laughing is a four-piece rock band but don’t be fooled by the conventional lineup. Featuring Logan Middleton on guitars and vocals, Sean Neesely on bass, Grant van Amburgh on drums, and Adam Glasseye on organ, the band likes to keep it fresh by tossing bells, dulcimers, ukuleles, synthesizers, clarinets, flutes, an array of percussion, and any other noises they can dream up into the mix. They draw inspiration from music, both popular and experimental, that spans eras. The band explains that their varied instrumentation and ornamental arrangements “adorn core song structures and melodies that take cues from the likes of Harry Nilsson, Os Mutantes, Jorge Bem, Silver Apples, Love, Roxy Music, Sonic Youth, 13th Floor Elevators and more.” Yet the recipe is so complicated that the ingredients become obscured. What do they do? The Laughing manage to drum up the same excitement that pop music once inspired but now lacks. How do they do it? By milking a century’s worth of music for everything its worth and fucking it up beyond recognition. The product captures the spirit of pop without seeming derivative. There are very few bands out there that can do what The Laughing is doing right now.

Let’s listen to A-side “Runner.” Middleton explains, “we present a core melodic and chordal structure of a classic early 60’s R & B influenced American pop song, that got unknowingly dosed with some sort potent combination of psychotropic substance and amphetamines.” Awesome. “If someone had informed Sam Cooke ahead of time how his brilliant career was going to come to such a violent and bizarre end,” Middleton continues, “he might have have leaned his later compositions in this direction. Incorporating a little 80’s new wave synth on top of Hammond organ the song is considerably faster, and more unhinged than the traditional pop form on which its based. Lyrically swapping out the innocence of the 50’s with a tinge of cynicism, all the while singing the same old song: I love you… I messed up…. now I want you back!”

“I messed up,” might be the dominant theme, but Middleton delivers it with such a cocky drunken American punch that one couldn’t exactly call it apologetic. In his deep vibrato and swooping melodies I hear traces of Presley to Pavarotti, Dr. Martin Luther King to Oscar de Leon to a laughing hyena. The Laughing’s style is bold and resonant but a little wild, accompanied well by a whiskey on the rocks. And what about Sam Cooke? My hunch is that even if he’d had the foresight to imagine what happened at the Hacienda Motel on that fateful night, he wouldn’t have created something quite so perverse as “Runner.” Yes, perverse. Why? Because it’s out of control. It’s an uncensored portrait of the inner workings of the diseased mind. And you can’t look away no matter how hard you try.

Sometimes when I’m listening to music I’ll zone out and without any conscious effort I’ll orchestrate an elaborate scene for which the music is the soundtrack. These scenes play out in my mind shot by shot, as if I were reading the storyboard of a film. “Runner” is the soundtrack to a chase scene. Frantic synths and guitars push the narrative along at breakneck pace. As the momentum builds, the cuts get more rapid. The screaming guitar becomes the screaming of breaks. Alternating drum and noise breaks on the bridge mark cut to after cut to! The drums break into a steady roll and the song explodes. Don’t expect to listen passively. This spirit is contagious.

B-side “Help Me” is a little less frantic. Middleton explains that “it slows things up and strips things down.” But please don’t get the wrong idea. “Help Me” is no ballad. It’s a dancing-on-the-kitchen-table-in-your-underwear-and shouting-into-a-broomstick kind of song. To put it more directly, “Help Me” is not a song for normal people. Though outwardly upbeat it’s deranged at the core and has a deceptively calm energy that builds steadily throughout. “Bringing in the ukulele and substituting the the persistent drums with hand claps and shakers,” says Middleton, “we depict a more personal account of some one in a sticky situation that stubbornly wants to be left alone to sort things out for himself. The title along with the overly re-assuring lyrical content betray this idea though, instead revealing that this person, really does need help! Complete with synth arpegiators and a ghetto-blastered-out finale we wanted to give the listener something to shout along to, while their ’subs’ rattle their neighbors coffee-table collectibles.”

“Help Me” lacks the force of “Runner” but more than compensates for that with catchy hooks and unconventional instrumentation. The chorus is beautiful for its simplicity. At only three words and four chords it’s easy (and nearly impossible)to forget. “Don’t help me…” As Middleton emphasizes, in context the lyrics appear ironic, the music suspiciously peppy. The plea is altogether unconvincing, it lacks composure.

Both “Runner” and “Help Me” come from The Laughing’s debut album, FEVER, which they released in 2009. Borrowing from the production tactics of genres as diverse as classic dub and noise rock, the album was collaboratively engineered by Erik Wofford (Black Angels, Voxtrot), Danny Reisch (The Lemurs), and Middleton himself. FEVER juxtaposes the “warmth of analogue tape and vintage effects” with the “infinite other-worldliness of digital.” Every track is memorable, interesting, and theatric… even the ones deceptively titled “(((pause)))” and “(((silence)))” Middleton explains that FEVER is named after a book he discovered as a child that discusses his grandfather Dr. John Frame’s discovery and treatment of Lassa Fever in Africa many years ago. “I liked it as it thematically ties in with the topic of the diseased (mostly mentally diseased) people throughout the album, but can also equally refer to a sense of fanaticism for something,” he adds.

Maybe it’s a disease and maybe it’s a fanaticism, where do we draw the line? Whatever the ‘fever’ is, The Laughing has it. Just listen to their wild and meticulously arranged music and I think you’ll understand what I mean. This band is a little bit crazy and a large bit brilliant. Catch them next month SXSW.

Nate Greenberg

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Day Sleeper is a band comprised primarily of college sophomores but they have a remarkably long history. Cas Kaplan (guitar, vocals) has been gigging since age eleven and began writing songs under the moniker Day Sleeper at age twelve. Kaplan finds it important to clarify that Day Sleeper is not a nod to the REM hit of the same name. Actually it is a reference to Insomnia, Kaplan’s former punk band, whose rejected material became Day Sleeper’s early repertoire. Eventually Day Sleeper grew into a band with the addition of guitarist Justin Danforth, bassist Dan Ferm, and drummer Luke Pyenson. They recorded their first album Drop Your Sword in 2008, while attending high school in Newton, MA and released it the following year through Cooling Pie Records, home to KC Quilty among others. Kaplan jokes that, “the album was well received, especially internationally, where oddly enough more Chinese websites have written about it than ones from any other country.” At any rate, I think it’s due time that Day Sleeper got a little love from the press back home and although I’m currently writing from a cafe in Seoul—really it’s just a minor technicality—I hope that this review will at long last introduce them to an American audience.

Kaplan explains that A-side “Windows Left Open” was originally called “Summertime” and “in one sense is meant to evoke the breeziness of that time of year.” Perhaps it does, although I cant help but wonder what that breeze carries. Kaplan asserts that there’s something “cynical and sinister” about it and I agree that the song is altogether unsettling. A distant rumble of thunder and the faint of rain are swept through that open window and pollute the summer afternoon with a foreboding dreariness. Actually, “Windows Left Open” is a fitting single for a band called Day Sleeper. A lumbering 6/8 pulse and lack of harmonic resolution create a dreamy vibe. It’s a little like the feeling you get when you accidentally drift off in the mid afternoon and wake up drenched in a cool sweat, only to find that hours have passed and its already dark out. It always takes a few minutes to figure out what happened, to remember where you are and even who you are. Actually, it reminds me of a passage from Swann’s Way in which Proust describes the sensation he felt as a child upon waking up. This return to reality “did not shock my reason but lay heavy like scales on my eyes and kept them from realizing that the candlestick was no longer lit… I recovered my sight and I was amazed to find a darkness around me soft and restful for my eyes, but perhaps even more so for my mind, to which it appeared a thing with out cause, incomprehensible, a thing truly dark.”

I realize that I’m treading on thin ice with that reference. Day Sleeper is not a pretentious hipster band and I don’t think the comparison to Proust is one that they themselves would draw. But whether or not they’d acknowledge it, their music evokes some of the same sensations. It takes me to a special place where the boundaries between dream, memory, and reality are blurred. A drugged-out lo-fi aesthetic reminiscent of Pavement is interspersed with brief moments of clarity. In this case, the passage “what have I left to say…” in which the band breaks into a conventional three chord pattern feels like a chorus even though it only happens once and interrupts the disconcerting monotony of the groove. Kaplan explains that “Windows Left Open” is indicative of Day Sleeper’s current artistic direction. “The guitars are tangled, the bass is leading, the drums are groovy and combative, and the vocals are melodic.” He also cites an emphasis on concision, which as a break from the bands “shoegazing” past. “Windows Left Open” retains the washed out guitars and emotional restraint characteristic of shoegaze, but Kaplan’s melodic vocal line is too distinct and the song’s form far too compact to fit the archetypal shoegaze blueprint.

B-side “Hiding Place” is similarly dreamy. I’d attribute that mostly to the vocals which sound suspiciously as if they were recorded under water. Good luck making out a word the band is saying. Here the human voice is used for its melodic qualities rather than as an instrument for speech. And yet the garbled words give the song a sort of haunting quality, as if there is some important message to be conveyed but it’s lost in transmission. I should clarify that this recording is only a demo and that it was recorded in a dormitory. Although it’s hard to imagine now, in later incarnations the song will feature a prominent drum part. Kaplan explains, “I wish there was a version that had Luke’s playing on it, because he really steals the show on this one live.” But even without drums, a strong pulse can be felt. Ferm’s propulsive bass vamp strongly marks the downbeat and gives the song a sense of forward momentum. Day Sleeper isn’t exactly the kind of band to make me get up and dance but they insist that they really love it when people get into their music at shows. In effort to get the crowd moving, “I tried to give this one a little bounce and snap,” explains Kaplan. Nevertheless, the predominant “guitar philosophy” remains the same as in other Day Sleeper songs. Principally, the guitars “weave and dovetail around one another” and move separately from section to section, paying little regard to the whole “verse-chorus-verse thing.” And so, “Hiding Place” strikes an interesting balance. It’s more groove oriented than most of Day Sleeper’s material but it’s so locked in that it becomes predictable.

What’s next for Day Sleeper? They’ve got some major plans. They hope to undertake the recording of a new album in the near future and to follow it up with a national tour. In the mean time they’re releasing a stopgap EP called Wonderland Kid featuring songs recorded at WERS at Emerson College in Boston, including A-side “Windows Left Open”. Day Sleeper has always been an active live band, playing at venues ranging in size from the cramped 75-person basement of the Knitting Factory in NYC to Boston music stronghold TT The Bear’s Place. If you check out their MySpace page you’ll notice that they pitch themselves as a BOS/NYC/CT/MTL band. Most high school bands fall apart after their members are scattered across the country by the college admission gods but Day Sleeper has managed to make the transition from a single-city high school band to a quad-city college band with remarkable grace. They’ve been gigging across the full extent of their geographic range and intend to continue performing as frequently as their schedules will allow. Coming soon to a venue near you…mark your calendars!

Nate Greenberg

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True Womanhood have been around for about 9 months and their debut album, Basement Membranes, was released only a few days ago.  Nevertheless, the band has made a name for itself, particularly locally, through regular gigs at some of DC’s most renown venues. With an impressive knowledge and appreciation of local indie/experimental music, they’ve managed to integrate themselves into the scene remarkably quickly.  Moreover, although all 3 members of True Womanhood are only 23 years old, they’ve known each other since middle school and it shows in the comfort with which they blend influences and support each others’ crazy ideas.  The chemistry is all there.

Of A-Side “The Monk”, percussionist Noam Elsner remarks, “this is a song we originally recorded for our demo and re-recorded for this release. It’s an interesting song for us because both times we recorded it it ended up changing drastically during the process. So you could say it’s been a really long song writing process, even though the main structure of the song hasn’t been touched since we first started playing.” The latest version was recorded at Death By Audio in DC and mixed with the help of J. Robbins.  “When we got into J’s studio we realized he had all this amazing equipment like an awesome Charter Oak mike and some sweet plate reverbs that we put all over the song so we redid the vocals and put reverb and tape echo on a bunch of the sounds, we play this song with a timpani that has a piece of metal sitting on it, you could call it prepared timpani if you’re into Cage and that sort of thing, but it made the timpani sound all sorts of fucked up which was awesome and we tried to bring those sorts of weirder sounds out with the reverb plate.” Texturally, it’s fascinating.  Although the skeleton of the song is fairly conventional, it’s fleshed out provocatively.  The “weirder sounds” that Elsner speaks of give the song an ethereal quality which is haunting in places.  Lush reverb on innumerable guitars is offset by violent crashes on the “prepared timpani.”

The band reasons, “this is kind of a funny song because it’s one of our most straightforward poppy songs which was why we wanted to temper some of that with some stranger sounds, so like the Phil Spector breakdowns in the chorus got that treatment and hopefully we reached a happy medium between pop and experimental.” That they certainly do.  “The Monk” exhibits traces of pop, particularly in its structure and in the pre-chorus, where a catchy rising chord progression builds beneath falsetto laced vocals.  “I’ll meet you halfway…” But pop isn’t a word that would come to the minds to most listeners.  “The Monk” is a lot more accessible than, to draw on the John Cage reference, 4 minutes and 33 seconds of silence, but honestly I’m quite thankful for that.  It’s about as conventional as the kind of ‘pop’ put out by the likes of Radiohead or Bjork.

Actually, True Womanhood gets a lot of comparisons to Radiohead and also to Sonic Youth.  While the basis for such comparisons is fairly obvious, the band is a little uncomfortable whenever they’re drawn.  During an interview with DCist, guitarist/vocalist Thomas Redmond explained, “I feel that is just convenience. That’s all it is. What those two bands do is they mix crazy avant garde stuff with pop stuff.  And let’s be honest, that’s what we’re trying to do… But I think what’s really important to us is the new music that’s coming out now. We’d be more comfortable with a No Age and Beach House comparison. Or HEALTH and Beach House. Or No Age and Slow Dive…” It’s in moments like these that True Womanhood’s knowledge and appreciation of music really becomes obvious.  Actually, they make it clear that they’re influenced by just about everything under the sun.  Bassist Melissa Beattie points out, “we’ve listened to a lot of hip hop lately.”And sure enough, the band’s MySpace page ironically (or not?) states, “True Womanhood is the best rapper alive.” A full text of that interview can be found at here.

With regard to “The Monk,” Elsner concludes, “It’s also probably our happiest song, we don’t really do too much in happy moods so even when we do it still ends with the line ‘we tried and failed.’ make of that what you will.” Well, to me it’s not the ultimate but the penultimate line that haunts the most, “we eat our young.” Cheerful indeed.

Elsner describes B-Side “Shadow People” as an enigma.  “It’s probably the oldest song that we still play and since day one it’s been a fan favourite. It’s been around since way before we even had a demo but it wasn’t on the demo, and we got all these people asking where it was.” But he modestly asserts that the only “solid parts” are the guitar riff and drum track.  Beattie typically plays the drum track on the Vox Percussion King, a vintage drum machine that the band tells me has only ever been used on one other recording, Kraftwerk’s Autobahn.  So True Womanhood has a lot to live up to.  After all, Autobahn shattered barriers as one of the first commercially successful electronic music recordings.  But Beattie’s use of the Vox Percussion King is actually a lot more interesting than Kraftwerk’s.  A heavy guitar riff holds the song together, leaving the drums free to wander outside the lines.  Thunderous crashes and hits free to fall at moments when they might not be expected.  Also, as Elsner is quick to point out, “It’s got amazing sounds but it’s really old skool, you have to play all the sounds by hand with these weird paddle things.” Basically, it’s a spectacle.

The band explains that “for such a simple song, we’ve gone through a million ways of playing the song live, including the use of an electric guitar bowed with an acoustic, and also an installation we set up with a ton of organ pipes with mics fit inside which all ran into a mixer and some crazy effects.. So when we wanted to record there were so many options we sort of did not know the best way to fit them all together, and we went through many different variations before settling on this version. The recording features Thomas singing into some of the organ pipes and also I believe includes the use of every single Death by Audio pedal.” That’s right.  “Shadow People” might be a simple song but texturally, it’s  thick as fuck.  This becomes especially apparent at the end of the song when  the primary guitar riff and vocals dissolve, leaving a number of previously background sounds exposed.  “Wait, what was I just listening to?” And live, the possibilities are basically endless.  Elsner reflects, “the last time we played this song live it was an encore to some show we played in DC, and it turned into a crazy drum circle on stage with like half the audience and members of other bands all playing all the drums along with us, one of the coolest moments the band has been lucky enough to witness.”

Nate Greenberg

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When I heard My Dearest Darling for the first time my initial reaction was, “wait, what just happened?” My second thought, after suppressing the acid flashbacks was, “that’s some trippy shit.” And my third impulse was to contact them about doing a feature in The Ampeater Review.

My Dearest Darling certainly is some trippy shit, but not in a clichéd “oh my god I just swallowed so many magic mushrooms” way… insofar as it’s reasonable to believe that any band hailing from Burlington Vermont could not have been inspired, at least to some extent, by tripping balls.  This band is surprisingly articulate and I cant shake the sensation that some deep seeded truth lies at the core of the cacophony.  For someone who generally prefers a subtlety in music, I find myself unusually taken by My Dearest Darling, whose over-saturated sound mirrors so beautifully the chaotic bustle of the human mind.

My Dearest Darling began a few years back when keyboardist/vocalist D. Munzing wrote a ‘suite’ of experimental pop songs on a beat up piano deep within the Vermont Woods. Eventually Munzing emerged from the woods to share his music with guitarist M. Hagan and bassist T. Gevry, both former members of the Burlington-based Lendaway, and drummer C. Mathieu, with whom Munzing had previously played alongside in the band Tell No One.  Within a few months Munzing’s songs had been transformed into space age psychedelic pop hits and the group had coalesced into My Dearest Darling.  A slew of shows in Vermont and NYC opening for bands such as White Rabbits and The Fiery Furnaces earned My Dearest Darling a small following and before long they were hard at work on their first album.  The LP, self titled, was recorded over the span of several months in basements, multiple studios, and ultimately in Munzing’s bedroom.  Munzing explains that “even though finishing the record myself took longer than I anticipated, recording on my own allowed me to experiment without any time or financial restrictions and I was able to get closer to the sound I was looking for.” The product of these sessions was  finally released in December of 2009 and can be downloaded at www.mydearestdarling.com.  Keyboardist Z. Gunderson has joined the band to “take over synth duties for live shows” and My Dearest Darling is plotting to take the North East by storm in the Spring of 2010.

My Dearest Darling is theatrical in a way reminiscent of Radiohead or Muse.  A-Side “The Perfect Vice” is a dizzying vortex of a song.  An 88-key piano roll grabs your attention from the get-go and pulls you into a haze of warbling synths and frenzied drums.  A relentlessly fast 6/8 feel pulses throughout the song from start to finish, meshing astonishingly well with Munzing’s slow but determined vocals which float stoically over the chaos.  His voice is appropriately breathy on the lows but on the high notes takes on a sense of apocalyptic urgency.  The song’s got enough hooks within its verse/chorus structure to keep the listener captivated for its longevity.  Nevertheless, the breakdown at about 2:45 provides refreshing respite from the unkempt chaos and gives each instrument a little time to shine.  First the drums get their moment, blasting their way through a few residual piano notes with a tribal tom-tom beat.  One by one, the band jumps back in.  Gevry’s ascending bass line, which anchors the song down, floats to the   front of the mix before a syncopated piano riff is layered on top of it.  Synths and guitars follow en suite and, at last, the chorus.

B-Side “Decay” is more ethereal, lacking the in-your-face frenzy of “The Perfect Vice.” As Munzing comically phrases it, “its a slow burner but rewarding assuming the listener has the patience to not hit ‘next’ even after the song is interrupted on their iPhone by their mom asking, ‘do you have enough sweaters for winter this year?’” Actually, my first listen was interrupted not by my mother but by my computer, beeping to warn me that my battery level was critically low.  Obediently, I powered down, but as soon as I found an outlet, I was ready for another listen.  In a strange way “Decay” was already stuck in my head and yet I couldn’t even me remember how it went.   All I knew as that I had to hear the rest of the song.  I returned to it with an an acute sense of of déjà vu or, better yet, déjà écouté, but with no conscious memory of what I was hearing.  I suppose what I’m trying to say is that “Decay” is not a catchy song by any stretch of the imagination but it’s completely immersive. Arpeggiating synthesizers cascade through each ear evoking vintage Pink Floyd.  A tension pervades throughout the song, even in the softest sections..  Sure it’s chill but that’s is not due to a lack of energy but stems from a suppressed energy t hat is constantly on the verge of bursting free.  And in the guitar solo, it finally does.  “Decay” ends on the high note of the guitar solo and fizzles away, like an exploding supernova dissipating into space.

Nate Greenberg

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People form bands for all sorts of reasons.  Some bands begin with a concept or gimmick, others are driven by a thirst for self expression, while others still are born from egotism, curiosity, political motive, chance, or even boredom.  Redbird Fever, a three-piece indie rock band based out of western Washington state, was born from a challenge.  In February of 2009 Ralph Hogaboom (guitar, vocals, glockenspiel) decided to participate in the February Album Writing Month challenge at www.fawm.org by writing fourteen new songs.  It can’t be easy to write fourteen songs in twenty-eight days—I’ve never been able to write more than a couple in a month—but Hogaboom managed to pull it off and after the month was up, he took his songs to Jay Wainman (violin, vocals, melodyhorn) with whom he’d been jamming for several months.  The pair entered the studio in May and spent two full days pumping out as much as they could.  First Hogaboom recorded drums, guitars, and vocals and then Wainman layered on violin, additional vocals, and a collection of instruments she had brought with her.  Conrad Uno (Presidents of The United States America, Fresh Young Fellows) mixed it on the spot and, as Hogaboom reflects, “we took it home dazed and confused and not really knowing if we even liked it yet.” The product of these sessions was the six-track EP Come Away From Your Home (available for download on this site).  Perhaps Hogaboom and Wainman couldn’t see it because they were stuck in the thick of it, but it only took me one listen to tell that they had created something special.

In July, Hogaboom and Wainman recruited  drummer Michael White to flush out their sound and enable them to perform live.  White’s jazz and metal influence made for an interesting addition, completing Redbird Fever lineup.  But as I mentioned previously, Redbird Fever was born from a challenge.  That’s not only a comment on Hogaboom’s  decision to write an album’s worth of material in the shortest month of the year, but also a comment on the makeup of the band.  “It’s pretty easy to be in a band with three sweaty guys, yelling your way through power chords. When we decided not to have a bass player, much of that was driven by the challenge that presents. You have to work your way through a song idea differently when you can’t count on that thick bassline to bring it back in from a drum break, for example. So you wind up structuring things in less common ways, and we’re finding that much more interesting and satisfying right now. The same is true of melody, with our violin. We use the violin as a melody, on top of the music, which challenges the vocal melodies to try to rival it if they’re going to get the attention in your ear. It’s a tension in the music, I think, and there’s a certain appeal in that tension.”

Redbird Fever combines quirky pop sensibilities with a healthy experimental vibe.  Their songs are short and snappy (the longest track on their EP is only 2:47) and remarkably unpretentious.  As they explain it, “spiraling violin and vocal melodies offset looped, angular guitar riffs and dynamic lyrics about loss, heartache, and alienation.” That’s all true enough, but there’s a charm to Redbird Fever that extends beyond that, something that one can’t put a finger on so easily.  It might have something to do with the intimacy of the lyrics, which seem more like fragments of a bedside conversation or  a stream of consciousness than something premeditated.  Or maybe, as Hogaboom suggests, it has something to do with the interplay between violin and vocals.  Or maybe it’s the subtle tension between Wainman’s and Hogaboom’s vocal melodies, usually in unison but diverging at key moments.  Or perhaps I’ve missed it entirely.  I’ll let you be the judge of that.  It’s time to press play on A-side “It’s a Metaphor, Dear!”

7… 6… 5… 4… 3… 2… 1…!!! Lately, Redbird Fever has been opening their shows with this song and having the crowd help them count down.  Hogaboom explains, “when we hit one and start the song, there’s a really nice sharing that happens with us and everyone who was counting.” “It’s a Metaphor, Dear!” is the perfect opener.  A percussive guitar riff and peppy violin melody kick things off with gusto while the refrain takes on a more pensive air.  A heavier riff-based outro gives the band a chance to build.  As advertised, “It’s a Metaphor, Dear!” is an extended metaphor.  “I think that I would like to live in her heart it may sound stupid but i’d have to bring both my cats.  Maybe it’d be better if I were a red blood cell, flow through her aorta and down through her left ventricle.” But the mere act of declaring the song a metaphor adds a sarcastic twist, as if to say it’s a metaphor for a metaphor.  Certainly, it’s not to be taken at face value.  Hogaboom explains, “it’s about love, but it’s got this insincerity wrapping it up”

As I keep asserting, Redbird Fever is a band that likes to push itself, and nowhere is this more evident than in B-side “Sometimes Things Get Broken.”  The band explains that  “[it] started out as an experiment, trying to challenge ourselves to do a song with no musically separate chorus, and try to make it apparent using mostly vocals.” It’s a test they pass with flying colors.  The beautiful vocal harmonies on the title line, “sometimes things get broken,” help it to rise above the mix but when Hogaboom’s and Wainman’s voices diverge on the word broken, with Hogaboom cutting it short and Wainman continuing on, the sense of togetherness literally gets broken.  In another instance, Wainman sings “don’t tell me 1 and 1 make 1 again” while Hogaboom shouts bitterly over her, “it’s subtraction, it’s addition,” evoking a conflict between lovers. Although “Sometimes Things Get Broken” lacks a distinct verse/chorus structure it’s musically quite progressive.  Unusual textures like handclaps and whispers help keep things interesting on this track.

Redbird Fever plans to enter the studio again in early 2010 to record a full length album.  In the mean time, they will be performing, the next show scheduled at 4th Ave Tav in Olympia, WA on January 23^rd.  And February is right around the corner.  Would it be too much to hope for fourteen new songs?

Nate Greenberg

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