The stylish 1960s Italian/French movie Danger: Diabolik is known for two things. In some circles it’s a cult classic. It’s based on an Italian comic and stars a dashing antihero thief with anarchic pretensions, and features gorgeous, lavish sets, tons of positively continental late-60s pizazz, and a suitably caper-ish soundtrack by Ennio Morricone. In other, perhaps larger circles, it’s also known as the last crappy film Mystery Science Theatre 3000 ever lampooned before Mike and the bots came crashing back to Earth.

If you know anything about MST3K, it’s the premise: a hapless guy and the robots he’s made are locked in a spaceship and forced to watch really bad movies, a fate they deal with by mercilessly poking fun at the movies as they play. Does that make Diabolik a bad movie? Well, sort of—it’s pretty unbelievable that a slick master thief who wears silly masks all the time would have a huge underground lair with gadgets and Rube Goldberg devices lying around, as Diabolik does. But as a fan of the movie pointed out on IMDB, isn’t that basically what Batman is—a man working outside the law who wears silly costumes and has an inexplicably giant and ornate underground lair? Besides which, compared to most of the movies MST3K lampoons, Danger: Diabolik actually has a soundtrack that doesn’t suck, composed by one of cinema’s greatest.

“Deep Down” would probably be a more effective theme if it wasn’t so obviously rehashed five times during the course of the film, but maybe that’s why Morricone was reportedly never happy with Diabolik’s soundtrack. It probably also works better in Italian than English. This version is the semi-officially released Italian version, cleaned up and apparently pressed to seven-inch—Morricone completists would know better than I. Though most of Morricone’s soundtracks have since found release, Danger: Diabolik isn’t one of them—the best anyone’s found so far is apparently a bootleg CD, recorded from the movie itself (which is why you can hear Diabolik’s over-the-top evil laugh at the beginning). I haven’t put that version up for two reasons: the sound quality isn’t as good, and the English lyrics will make you wince in pain. Better to stick with the Italian version and dream of trans-Atlantic excess free of complications like understandable lyrics.

Unless you understand Italian, of course, in which case I guess there’s no saving you from the cheese.

(P.S. You really want the English version? Here’s a video.)

I don’t personally have a whole lot of time for Valentine’s Day, but that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate some of the lovely things that go along with it. Like candy hearts. And grade-school valentine’s cards. Remember how your grade school teachers had you make funky little boxes made out of construction paper on Valentine’s Day, and then you and your fellow classmates would go around during recess and drop little cards with cheeky cartoons on the front into your friends’ boxes? It was like every year, your local elementary school decided there should be a referendum on how popular you were, with candygrams serving as votes. But even if you were one of the unpopular kids and you only got a couple of cards—elementary school was rarely so harsh as to leave a kid cardless—you could soothe the burning hole where your heart used to be by stuffing your face full of cinnamon hearts and burning a hole in your mouth instead.

To candy hearts, grade-school valentines, and innocent twee sentiments, I give you this early Dressy Bessy track. “If You Should Try to Kiss Her” comes from their first album, 1999’s Pink Hearts Yellow Moons. And if you can’t immediately offer up the missing elements from that title, then obviously you never ate your Lucky Charms as a kid—clearly Dressy Bessy were aiming for a particular aesthetic on this album. Though the Denver band rocks harder and faster these days, in some ways there’s no replacement for the twee-overload sugar rush of Dressy Bessy’s early days, and it doesn’t get much twee-er than this. So if you’re in need of a Valentine’s Day change of venue, try going back to second grade, and let Dressy Bessy be your time machine chauffeurs.

And when you get back, save some candy hearts for me.

This past Saturday, Toronto band Republic of Safety released its latest CD, Succession, to a local crowd of revellers and well-wishers. The party, I hear, went all night. And with good reason—Succession marks the Republic’s final release, and Saturday the band’s final show.

The band made the decision a couple of months back, not long after finishing the new EP; with the group’s main leaders Maggie MacDonald and Jonny Dovercourt headed in two different musical directions, it seemed obvious to them that the Republic’s days were numbered. For those of us not so in tune with the band’s personnel, though, we only heard about this about two weeks ago. In a way you could say Republic of Safety kinda sprung the announcement on us, but I guess border closures and refugee evacuations tend to be surprise affairs anyways.

Republic of Safety leaves behind three EPs and twelve songs—not an extensive discography, perhaps, but one full of gems nonetheless. The band began as a political agitprop garage punk band of sorts, though obviously one with a sense of humour; even to the end the band kept up the schtick of giving everyone in the band a minister title and claiming the Republic of Safety was a real country located off the coast of Torontopia. But over the years the band has mellowed their sound a bit and made friends with the Isles of Melody, and the running joke in interviews was that Succession was the band’s most commercial outing yet—a fantastic way of maintaining your street cred, since the band now has no way of capitalizing on whatever wider success Succession might face.

Unfortunately, it also means that if you’re just discovering Republic of Safety now, you’ve missed the boat. Dovercourt says he plans to take a bit of time off to collect himself and contemplate his musical future, while MacDonald’s thinking of taking things in a more synth-folk direction (maybe this explains how the band grabbed the Toronto opening spot for the Blow this past summer), which means it’s unlikely you’ll hear MacDonald shouting slogans over broken-glass guitar riffs anytime soon. If it’s any consolation, there’s an entire nation of refugees who feel your pain.

I make a lot of recommendations about albums you should listen to. Here’s a recommendation about an album you should avoid: the self-titled debut from British duo Prinzhorn Dance School. Many bands suffer from a lack of imagination and depth, resulting in a lot of albums that find a stylistic box and snuggle comfortably in it for forty minutes or so. But Prinzhorn Dance School take this lack of musical wanderlust to an extreme; it’s like in the universe of Prinzhorn Dance School, there are only three notes and four rhythms, and the album is in fact a scientific reference document organizing all the possible permutations into sixteen very similar sounding tracks, so that subsequent studies can simply refer to “You Are the Space Invader” or “Black Bunker” instead of writing out the whole pattern of notes each time. If you’ve heard one track—and you’re about to—you’ve heard them all.

It’s not just the similarities between tracks, either; Tobin Prinz and Suzi Horn have made minimalism their main concern, with most tracks dominated by little more than a repetitive bass line, a repetitive guitar riff, and the almost random beats of a seemingly distracted drummer. And then there’s Prinz’s mimicry of the Fall’s Mark E. Smith, in that he barely sings at all and prefers to not-quite-shout musings from a distance, backed up occasionally by Horn’s shouting of slogans during the choruses. In all, a very basic formula, run aground over the course of the album.

Okay, so not a great long player then, and the formula itself seems to wear itself very thin on paper. In fact, there are a lot of reasons why Prinzhorn Dance School shouldn’t work—and yet here’s “Crackerjack Docker,” a perfectly sinister song (accompanied by a perfectly sinister video) that seems too simple to be effective, but somehow burrows deep into your skull and never leaves. The lyrics are absurd and the song itself is barely a skeleton. But dismiss it at your peril, like I did halfway through the first listen, for soon enough you might find yourself playing it again. And again. And again. And again.

Glass Candy’s been through more stylistic upheavals than I can possibly keep track of. Not that I’d be a good person to track that progression anyways; my sole exposure to the Portland group’s work is three songs that bookend their nearly decade-long career. 2007’s “Miss Broadway” appears on the Italo disco compilation After Dark, an album that sits somewhere in a huge “listen to this sometime so you know what the kids are on about” pile. Like so many niche genres invented before I was born, Italo disco is a cipher to me; aside from a couple of names propping up the style’s recent revival, I can’t tell you a damned thing about it. So in terms of explaining Glass Candy’s career, I’m a dismal failure; I can’t even describe to you the greater context of the band’s current work.

What I can offer you instead is a look into the group’s distant past, back when electroclash was just beginning to gain traction thanks to the likes of Ladytron. Back then the group was called Glass Candy and the Shattered Theatre, a name that I guess became too unwieldy over the years. “Brittle Women” appears on the band’s first album, 2003’s Love Love Love, but by then Glass Candy had already changed its sound. Re-recorded for the album, the 2003 version of “Brittle Women” sounds like a darker, tortured Blondie tribute. When originally recorded in 1999, “Brittle Women” was a lot less subtle and exuded less of that glam coolness. Instead of channelling Debbie Harry, singer Ida No takes a more theatrical, half-shouted approach, to arguably greater effect. The rest of the band sounds more garage than new wave, too; but then could you ever imagine glossy new wave on Portland indie label K Records?

The gritty agitprop garage punk sound is worlds away from the slick euro synthesizers of Glass Candy circa 2007. Now that the band have found a comfortable niche—members of the band also assist with Italo disco luminaries the Chromatics, as well as having a hand in After Dark’s production—it’s unlikely the early part of Glass Candy’s career will ever gain much attention except for a brief biographical mention. As historical footnotes go, though, “Brittle Women” has more attitude and verve than most.

[review 2007: favourites]

The long-defunct music webzine Addicted to Noise showered praise on the first, self-titled Elastica record in 1995. By the end of the article, Bud Scoppa briefly speculated on the band’s future: “Elastica has the smarts and chops to be a career band, but the first album is so fully realized, the concept so complete, that they’ll be severely challenged to follow it. Given their predilection for brevity, maybe they won’t even bother. After all, in the quick-cut ’90s, entire careers are being played out within the span of a single album project.” Three years after that review, you’d be forgiven for thinking that ATN review was a sort of curse; a second Elastica album was nowhere in sight, the band was in shambles, and aside from the occasional BBC session or leaked track, it didn’t even seem like the band was interested in recording anything substantial. Only the release of The Menace five years after Elastica’s brief time in the spotlight kept the band from one-album wonder status.

In 2005, I could see Elastica’s moment in the sun being repeated before my very eyes in the form of the Go! Team. In the summer, the British group landed in Canada for the first time and put on a shockingly good show in Toronto—amazing, considering the Go! Team’s origins as a solo project and its relative inexperience as a touring band. When the Go! Team returned to Toronto in October, after the initial euphoria of the Go! Team live experience wore off, things looked a lot worse from my perspective—the show wasn’t nearly as fun, new member Kaori Tsuchida seemed like a bad fit with her hypercaffeinated schoolgirl antics, and Ninja’s live additions to the Thunder, Lightning, Strike material weren’t working as well as I’d thought originally.

The band was beginning to suffer on record as well—b-side “We Just Won’t Be Defeated” was one of the first songs the band had recorded with Ninja’s vocals in mind from day one, but compared to the original album it fell utterly, painfully flat. Same too for the version of “Bottle Rocket” with Ninja’s relatively tepid vocals replacing samples that apparently couldn’t be cleared for worldwide release. A couple of months later, the instrumental “Phantom Broadcast” appeared to revisit some of Thunder, Lightning, Strike’s tropes but failed to bring anything new or exciting to the table. So it seemed like the end of the road was near for the Go! Team, at least for me; nothing I’d heard since the album gave me much confidence for the band’s long-term prospects.

All that changed upon the release of “Grip Like a Vice,” the first single off Proof of Youth. The single biggest worry I had about the new album—the band’s inability to integrate live vocals fully into the songs—faded with every listen. As it turns out, the vocals were neither Ninja’s nor recorded live—the lack of vocal credits on the album as well as Parton’s tendency to keep the vocals relatively low in the mix make identifying any single singer difficult. But one aspect that was undeniable was the fuller, more immediate sound—the result of bringing the band into the studio and recording much of the album using real instruments instead of samples. As a result, Proof of Youth is a Go! Team album that works equally well in the studio and on the road.

Proof of Youth is more sunshine and lollipops than Thunder, Lightning, Strike. This is partially because the improved production lifted the fog of distortion that gave the first Go! Team album its unique character, but it’s also a result of the more collaborative writing and recording process—you can hear the presence of more people getting their hands dirty and having fun this time around, and the lively vocal contributions from Ninja, Chi Fukami Taylor and Kaori Tsuchida really do make a difference, even if at first it’s more a subliminal one—and to be fair, the guest contributions come off the same way, especially on “I Never Needed It Now So Much,” sung by Solex’s Elisabeth Esselink. It doesn’t take long for the album to distinguish itself; some of the new contributions shine brighter than anything off the first album, like “The Wrath of Marcie,” “Titanic Vandalism” and “Fake ID.” It’s not just that they’re better songs, it’s that they sound more alive. And there’s no burying Chuck D in the mix, but even with “Flashlight Fight” it’s obvious that this is a Go! Team track. Amazingly, the song sounds just as good when Ninja completely replaces Chuck D’s bluster with her own raps in concert, a testament both to Ninja’s ability as a rapper and to Ian Parton’s ability to write a backing track.

Sure, Proof of Youth doesn’t make any groundbreaking advances on Thunder, Lightning, Strike’s basic formula, but it’s actually a bit hard for me to go back to that first album now. The differences may be small, but they add up to a fairly stark contrast—where the Go! Team as Ian Parton’s solo project sounds a bit canned, the Go! Team as full band sounds full of life and vigour. They may still be working out all the kinks of operating together—Parton still composes much of the music himself, and it sounds like some members wouldn’t mind larger roles in the conception stage. But Proof of Youth is both a great album on its own and a sign that the band is willing and able to evolve. Right now it’s hard to say if more drastic changes in the formula are in the cards for album number three—for the band’s sake they might almost be necessary—but one thing’s certain: the Go! Team are here to stay.

[review 2007: favourites]

Charlotte Hatherley’s Grey Will Fade and Ash’s Meltdown, both released within months of each other in 2004, marked turning points of sorts for the members of Ash. Meltdown was the first album after Ash’s breakthrough Free All Angels, which made it to the top of the UK charts and gave the band a number of big singles. Having finally figured out how to meld the bigger sound from Nu-Clear Sounds with the pop sensibility they’d developed on their debut, Ash were ready to retry the American market again (Nu-Clear Sounds was the first attempt) and delve back into harder-edged rock material. For Hatherley, who’d been with the band for the better part of a decade at that point, her own album—recorded while Ash was in California for the Meltdown sessions—Grey Will Fade represented the first steps towards independence. Named after a song she originally penned for Ash and released as the b-side to “There’s a Star,” Grey Will Fade owed much to Ash both in sound and in conception: Wheeler was the one who first suggested to Hatherley that she record an album.

Three years on, and from those origins much has changed. Ash is a three-piece band again, and though everyone involved still seems to be on okay terms, there’s also signs that Hatherley’s departure wasn’t completely her idea. Ash decided after this year’s Twilight of the Innocents that albums are so yesterday, so they won’t be recording anything but singles from now on. Combine that with Ash’s new makeup as a trio and the geographical relocation to New York for two-thirds of the band, and you’ve got a band that’s seriously rethinking its place in the world. And as for Hatherley? She’s been doing some thinking as well, obviously. Grey Will Fade had a lot in common with Ash’s material, especially Free All Angels—not a bad place to start. But even though “Summer” and “Bastardo” were the big singles, it was tracks like “Kim Wilde” that really showed promise. Most guitarists pursuing solo albums don’t write crazy rollercoaster songs like “Kim Wilde,” or at least not good ones. Hatherley had something up her sleeve, and it wasn’t necessarily all power-pop stuff, either.

The Deep Blue takes the blueprint of Grey Will Fade and largely throws it away. By her own admission, there are a couple of bridges back to that album, namely “I Want You to Know.” But just like “Summer” before, the throwbacks are the least compelling tracks on The Deep Blue. Furthermore, “I Want You to Know”’s ragged punk-pop sound sticks out like a sore thumb, coming as it does after the sun-kissed duo of “Cousteau” and “Be Thankful.” Those two tracks set the tone for the rest of the album: a gauzier, multilayered sound that avoids the relatively easy pleasures of Grey Will Fade for more complex song structures. The payoffs versus Hatherley’s first album are muted and less immediate; the appeal of a song like “Love’s Young Dream” is less evident alongside the more Ash-like songs. But Hatherley’s thinking longer-term here; a lot of The Deep Blue sounds like foundation work, a way to figure out how best to express her sonic ambitions in the future.

What this all means is the album’s strength lies more in its ability to impress upon you a certain mood and atmosphere. There are plenty of songs that, in lieu of the spiky pop nuggets of old, provide more serene pleasures. “Be Thankful” and “It Isn’t Over” are utterly gorgeous pop songs, and “Wounded Sky” and “Behave” retain some bite while maintaining the overall dreamy vibe of the album. The major exception, the epic and melancholy “Love’s Young Dream,” throws a dissonant wrench into the mix to great effect. And lest you think the album is quiet, there’s still the likes of “Very Young” and “Siberia.” Remember that Hatherley was recruited by Ash when she was 18 on the basis of her guitar chops; she knows where her roots are.

The Deep Blue is a sprawling statement that should put to rest any concerns about Charlotte Hatherley’s long-term prospects as a solo artist. Hatherley clearly has ambitions and talent, and if nothing on the album really points to a future career direction, that’s mainly because the directions she takes on this album are so varied and yet are all equally viable. In the meantime, between the bliss of “It Isn’t Over” and the delightful crunch of “Roll Over (Let it Go)” and “Very Young,” there’s lots to love about this album. Maybe Ash have written off albums, but I hope Hatherley hasn’t, because her next album should knock ‘em all dead.

[review 2007: favourites]

When I heard High Society for the first time, I thought of it as really more like two or three albums. There was the boring, straightforward guitar rock album (though in hindsight it wasn’t as straightforward as I remembered), led largely by John Schmersal; there was the bloopy, slinky electropop album, featuring Toko Yasuda on vocals; then there was the mini-album where the two would combine forces all Wonder Twins-style and fuse the two styles together. This minisuite of “Natural Disasters,” “Carbonation” and “Salty” was the best thing about High Society, and it seemed a bit like the album was so fractured only because Yasuda was still relatively new to the group (having decamped from Blonde Redhead to join Enon). Give them a couple of albums to really figure this thing out and Enon could put out an awesome record, I thought.

That day is here and that record is Grass Geysers…Carbon Clouds. Enon have worked out all the bugs and it’s all systems go, to magnificent effect: they’ve recorded an album full of foot-stompers and hip-shakers, with the traditional Enon whirlygig soundscape surprisingly intact. Schmersal and Yasuda no longer sound as though they’ve been working in their own separate studios, either—it’s one band now, with a single-minded purpose—to rock your socks off. It’s actually a bit scary how well the fusion holds together—there are a couple of songs where it sounds a bit like Yasuda’s even taken on Schmersal’s vocal tics.

Along with Enon’s newfound consistency, there’s the bigger, more aggressive sound. First track “Mirror On You” is the sound of Enon putting you on notice: they’re not fucking around this time. The jittery guitar solo in the middle of the song (less than two minutes in total!) and Yasuda’s feverish vocal contributions batter and bruise you into submission—it’s stuff to get the heart racing and the feet moving. The rest of the album is similarly caffeinated: the competent indie rock songs on High Society, even highlight “Natural Disasters,” is completely outmatched by the scorching V8-powered rock of songs like “Those Who Don’t Blink” and “Piece of Mind.” And the quirky electropop numbers were nice, but Enon gives Yasuda the best song on the album with “Pigeneration,” another rapid-fire stormer full of attitude—and just one of many songs that shows Yasuda can do more than the cute Japanese chanteuse schtick. Grass Geysers is fantastic enough to almost obliterate any memory of Enon’s previous works.

I say almost because you’ve probably figured out the one flaw with the album if you’re a fan. The consistency that happens to be Grass Geysers‘ biggest improvement can also be a problem. When I first listened to the album it sounded fun enough, but the songs all blurred into one another; Grass Geysers is consistent to a fault. This is especially weird considering that Enon albums have always been genrehoppers; here they’ve settled down, and some people might miss the wanderlust of the past.

I might have missed it too, except it didn’t take long for me to figure out which song was which and appreciate them for their individual charms. For a lesser band with a lesser collection of songs that consistency might be a momentum killer, but not here. There may not be room any more for a “Disposable Parts” or “Knock That Door” any more, but if Enon keeps writing songs like “Pigeneration” and “Law of Johnny Doolittle” I really don’t see myself caring very much. Those earlier albums may have been very good, but they seem like unfinished blueprints now next to Grass Geysers…Carbon Clouds. This is the new yardstick by which all future Enon albums should be measured.

[review 2007: favourites]

Like most people, I came to the Fiery Furnaces by way of Blueberry Boat, the duo’s breakthrough album from 2004. That album was both exhilarating and mindboggling, and not always in a good way. To this day I’m still not sure if I like the album or not. I still vividly remember the days I spent listening to the album during the sunny Vancouver summer I spent as a transient student getting used to a new city, so for that Blueberry Boat will always be a bit special. But I can’t say the same for the content, which remains easier to admire than love. Clearly something interesting was at work; I just couldn’t figure out what.

Last year’s Bitter Tea was a step in the right direction. For the first time, I actually recognized songs from previous listens. It still felt like an album that demanded a lot of your time and effort, but at least the payoff was more immediate; you could get to like songs like “Black-Hearted Boy” and “Borneo” pretty quickly, and “Police Sweater Blood Vow” was one of the best songs the Furnaces had recorded to date. Bitter Tea had its problems, sure—it was a bit sluggish at times, and in hindsight there’s an odd cloud hovering over the album (other than the one on the album’s cover), as though the enthusiasm of Blueberry Boat had been somehow suppressed and rerouted through an arsenal of studio electronics. On the one hand it meant Bitter Tea didn’t stagger from genre to hook to coda like a drunken sailor, but it also meant the album didn’t sound alive like its flawed predecessor did.

Amazingly, almost shockingly, the multi-year project to figure out the Fiery Furnaces has reached a new apex. Upon first listen, the epic seven-minute opener “The Philadelphia Grand Jury” returns to noodly schizo Blueberry Boat territory. Except it doesn’t; after the nervous guitar intro we shift gears to… a lazily gorgeous set of guitar chords? And then when Eleanor Friedberger finally arrives a minute and a half into Widow City, she sounds relaxed and easygoing. Imagine Blueberry Boat without the attention deficit disorder and you’re beginning to understand where Widow City’s headed. For some people this will inevitably be a disappointment; part of the Fiery Furnaces’ raison d’etre, after all, was that perpetual nervous twitch in their music. For me, it was the change that finally made the music lovable.

If anything, “The Philadelphia Grand Jury” is actually the weakest song of the opening twenty minutes, because what comes afterwards is utterly brilliant. “Police Sweater Blood Vow” hints at the direction of “Duplexes of the Dead,” which takes the live, immediate sound of the former and adds a more luscious backing track. But that’s just a prelude to “Automatic Husband,” a perfect balance of the Friedberger’s neurotic genreshifting tendencies and the rock pedigree you always knew was lurking in there somewhere but never really found full expression. Same goes for “Clear Signal From Cairo,” six minutes full of twists and turns (and noisy-as-fuck thrashing) but otherwise surprisingly direct and immediate for a Fiery Furnaces song.

The entire first half of the album up to and including “My Egyptian Grammar” is lovingly carved out of a solid chunk of awesome. Had the album stopped after the twenty-five minute mark, Widow City could possibly have been my favourite CD of the year. That it keeps going for another half-hour makes it more difficult for me to recommend the album without reservations, but to be honest the second half isn’t so bad either. It takes another three or four tracks for Widow City to start dissolving back into dissonance—for those of you keeping score, that gets us to the forty-minute point—that’s an entire album for most band. There are still flashes of brilliance (like “This establishment will now serve MY purposes!” in “Cabaret of the Seven Devils”), but they’re harder to make out amidst the more raucous, unfocused meandering of songs like “Wicker Whatnots.” By the time I get to the final title track, my attention span’s been shot to pieces—and while Widow City the album is great, “Widow City” the song is forgettable bordering on annoying.

Despite the flaws of the second half, Widow City leaves a very good impression. It’s the first Fiery Furnaces album I’ve put on just to listen to, not because I’d just bought it and should try it out, or because I felt the need to listen to it over and over again to “get it,” as though I were drinking cough syrup because it was good for me. More than that, it’s the first Fiery Furnaces album that fulfills the potential I saw in them when I first heard some of their songs: “Crystal Clear,” “Single Again,” “Straight Street” and “Evergreen.” A charmed set of songs to be sure, and finally an album that manages to do justice to all of those initial touchstones. For a while I had a hard time deciding if I could say an album where a significant number of tracks didn’t do that much for me was worth calling “the best of the year.” I think almost singlehandedly rehabilitating my opinion of a band is pretty good grounds, though, and no jury in the land would convict me. Well, maybe one…

[review 2006: favourites]

What do you do when you’ve been out of the spotlight for a couple of years? In Imperial Teen’s case, you write an essay on how you spent your summer vacation for the class and set it to music. The Hair the TV the Baby & the Band makes up for its poor punctuation with another trademark dose of Imperial Teen sunshine five years after On, after which the band all but disappeared from the face of the earth. The L.A. band’s new album goes some way towards explaining the hiatus; each element of the title points to what each band member has spent the past five years pursuing.

For a while, it looked like On was going to be Imperial Teen’s last splash, and as final albums go it was a pretty outstanding one—everything from the keyboards to the sassy vocals sounded in top form, and On was rife with memorable moments—the band certainly knows how to write an irresistably catchy tune. In a way, you could be forgiven for asking exactly what it is that brought Roddy Bottum and company back to the table—the album itself is the best evidence that everyone’s got their own projects and businesses to pursue, so it’s not like anyone needed the money, the attention, or the touring schedule. The answer, then, appears to be a variation of part-time L.A. band syndrome: Imperial Teen has become less of an ongoing concern, perhaps, and more of a side outlet for everyone when they’re not wrapped up in running a hair salon or scoring television shows.

Which goes a long way towards explaining the more relaxed vibe on The Hair the TV the Baby & the Band. It takes a while to suss out exactly why the new album doesn’t sound quite like On, but I think it all comes down to polish. Songs like “Ivanka,” “Sugar” and “Teacher’s Pet” are slicker and tighter than anything on The Hair, and the new album is decidedly lacking in crazy electronic antics. This time out the recordings are stripped down to the basics, with guitars and drums dominating and keyboards playing a small supporting role (”Sweet Potato” being a notable exception). It sounds like the album could’ve been recorded on a sunny weekend. But it turns out Imperial Teen can be just as good with their more frenetic tendencies clipped and their keyboards shelved; as a straightforward indie pop album, The Hair is really good, if not necessarily anything particularly new or original.

That lack of novelty is originally what did the album in for me; even the prospect of buying another Imperial Teen album seemed a bit weird, like buying a piece of indie nostalgia. But over time, the album grows on you—the band hasn’t lost its songwriting touch, and when the band kicks it into overdrive like on “Sweet Potato” and “21st Century,” suddenly it’s like they never left the scene at all. It’s not quite the production On was, but if that album was Saturday night at the clubs, this is a Sunday afternoon barbecue with a bunch of friends. The Hair the TV the Baby & the Band is a perfectly charming album, and if Imperial Teen are willing to keep us up to date on their latest trials and tribulations, I’ll keep listening.