[review 2008: half-measures and quiet victories]

Sophomore albums are always tough, but even more so when they turn out to be your last. That’s what happened to the Long Blondes, who were in the middle of touring Couples in early June (not long after the Toronto gig in May I went to) when lead guitarist and songwriter Dorian Cox suffered a stroke. Several months later, it became clear that while Cox was reasonably functional, he wasn’t as sure about his ability to play the guitar in the future. The band parted ways, unwilling or unable to continue without him.

Couples, then, has the unfortunate responsibility of serving as the Long Blondes’ curtain call, when it seems so clearly to show a band still in the process of figuring out its next move. Anyone hoping for a retread or revamp of 2006’s Someone to Drive You Home was sorely disappointed; Couples is less straightforward, less danceworthy, and more varied. Aspects clearly pointed to more ambitious goals; “Century” is one of those songs that doesn’t quite incite a dance riot, but is full of potential. You can almost hear the song it should’ve been in your head, as a sort of commentary track to the original. It’s these moments that show the promise the Long Blondes had, and these moments that most obviously mark Couples as a transition album—but to what, we’ll never know.

The album was actually poorer for the tracks that most resembled its predecessor; “Guilt” and “Here Come the Serious Bit” are good tracks, but in the shadow of “Giddy Stratospheres” or “Separated By Motorways” or any of a half-dozen other choices, they come off as somewhat less enthused cover versions. It’s when the band steps away from their original material, like the shimmering almost-disco-pop of “Century” or the noir-thriller aesthetic of “Round the Hairpin,” that the Blondes come closest to forging a viable future sound for themselves. Some of these experiments aren’t entirely successful, but at least the band gave it the old college try. More than that, they make a convincing case that the easy pleasures of their old dancefloor-friendly guitar pop weren’t worth hanging onto for a whole second album.

With word that Cox is undergoing physiotherapy in the hopes of picking up the guitar again, the more romantic amongst us may hope that the Long Blondes reform sometime in the near future. But honestly, I’m left to wonder if perhaps that time has passed. Couples documents the process of the band attempting to evolve beyond their origins—here seems like a good time to trot out the ol’ presser factoid about the two couples in the band having broken up just before the recording sessions—but with their development halted in such a sudden and complete manner, it just doesn’t seem worth having the Blondes reform under the same aegis. We don’t need a reunion tour for a band that put out two albums—and I wonder if Kate Jackson, Dorian Cox and company would want that either. So good night, Long Blondes. You will be missed.

A lot of albums eventually come to signify times, places and attitudes in your life—all the more so if you occasionally imagine your life as though it were a movie, which is exactly the sort of thing that stodgier cultural critics would decry as yet another sign of the apocalypse. Events as large as my first month in Vancouver, and as small as bike rides along the shoreline during summer nights, all have accompanying soundtracks (the Fiery Furnaces for the former, Dear Nora’s We’ll Have a Time for the latter). But most of the time, it’s not at all evident what albums will be associated with what moments in life. There are plenty of albums I’ve listened to non-stop for short periods, but because there was no substantial hook to tie it into my life story, those albums eventually become forgotten.

And then there are albums that almost immediately take on the right tint and texture to fit into that particular season. Offend Maggie, Deerhoof’s latest, was one of those albums I picked up on a whim—hearing that it deviated from the raucous, uber-enthusiastic noise-pop extravaganza of Friend Opportunity, I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the “other” Deerhoof I never knew. It only took two or three listens to convince me I was wrong, though. I haven’t heard an album that worked its way into the rhythms of my life so completely since—and this is slightly embarrassing—Veruca Salt’s American Thighs. It might be coincidence that I’ve just moved to a new apartment with great views of a city park slowly turning yellow and orange, but Offend Maggie seems to be the perfect soundtrack for an autumnal Saturday afternoon.

So last week we had an attractive British singer who looks briefly like an emo castoff in one of their music videos; this week it’s a British band whose debut album was produced by someone who’s also worked with Fall Out Boy and Lostprophets. Clearly, if there are any trends to notice in my musical diet as of late, it’s these:

1. must involve a male and a female singer (also see the Kills, Blood Red Shoes and Los Campesinos!);
2. must be a British press darling (ditto);
3. optional: should have some resemblance/connection to embarrassingly young or uncool music genre

Johnny Foreigner’s Fall Out Boy connection is, admittedly, rather tenuous—about as tenuous as suggesting Laura-Mary Carter looks like a floppy haired emo singer. Never let it be said that I won’t distort a musical reality to service a neat angle. But there’s also the whole twee-pop resurrection that they share with Los Campesinos!, another British band you’ve never heard of but everyone on the home islands is already sick of hearing about. (An aside: if there’s one great thing about liking British bands in North America, it’s that there’s no British music press to overhype every band that puts out a remotely interesting EP or single.)

But let’s talk about that twee-pop angle for a second. Los Campesinos! sounds a hell of a lot like Heavenly by way of the Go! Team—the same chipper singing and double-time upbeat melodies of the former, but with three times the sonic material thanks to the kitchen-sink mentality of the latter. They also happen to shout and yell their lyrics more, like any good indie-pop band trying to sound like a pack of suger-addled teenagers. It’s the sugar that binds them most closely to Johnny Foreigner, who have been accused of ripping off Los Campesinos! but only share a few of the above qualities. There’s no way you’re going to mistake the Birmingham trio for Heavenly, for example, though one commenter did dismiss the band as being a poor version of early Pretty Girls Make Graves. To which I say, can’t be as poor as late Pretty Girls Make Graves, so why hate?

More to the point, the major point of departure to me is the extent to which Johnny Foreigner relies on guitars as a foundation. This might be where a lot of critics get the idea that the band’s arrangements and songwriting chops are more mainstream than Los Campesino!’s more varied sonic signature. But this seems like the sort of opposition that’s invented by the British music press in order to pick a brawl; as far as I’m concerned each approach has its merits. If occasionally you have a hard time telling them apart—well, I suppose that’d be more of a problem if I hadn’t just survived a year of intensely baroque and mature music.

I’m going to give the slight edge to Johnny Foreigner at the moment, largely on the basis of “Cranes and Cranes and Cranes and Cranes.” I know they’re supposed to be the punkier band of the two, but the chorus is so utterly adorable it’s like I’m back in 1999 listening to Bunnygrunt or something.

Occasionally, Last.fm does one of its jobs better than I expect. Case in point: Blood Red Shoes, a band I almost certainly would never have discovered if not for its recommendations, which usually tell me about bands I’ve heard of but don’t listen to much because I can’t be bothered to or just don’t particularly like. The UK duo are neither; recommended on the basis of my Long Blondes and Kills listening history, they’re supposed to have a range of influences cherry-picked from the American indie scene of the 90s—names like Fugazi and Sleater-Kinney. Unfortunately—and I almost hate to say this because it’s such a dumb thing to dismiss a band for—some of their music videos and pictures give off an entirely different vibe that I might describe as just too far this side of Evanescence and My Chemical Romance.

Take, for instance, the beginning of “I Wish I Was Someone Better,” which has the normally lovely Laura-Mary Carter machine-gunning the cameraperson with her guitar and looking like some floppy haired emo singer. The band say the video treatment is a bit of a response to the whole “young and sweet” image, which might explain why the guitar shooting thing comes off a bit goth-emo—after all, what are emo teenagers but young people trying very hard not to look sweet? But never mind that, because it’s not as though they don’t have more endearing videos, and besides all that the music is really quite ace. Carter and collaborator Steven Ansell play some terrifically intense garage punk that seem to combine many of my favourite motifs in music: lots of energy, male-female vocal tradeoffs, women yelling in my ear (”I can’t concentrate on anything at all”), razor-sharp guitars, and drumlines that’ll rattle your cage.

And though the band doesn’t appreciate even the hint of comparison with that other drums/guitar garage duo, the White Stripes, their composition is at least a neat inversion of that formula. Meg White gets a lot of flak, whether deserved or otherwise (I think not), for not contributing very much to the White Stripes sound. This probably has to do with the relatively simple, straightforward drum parts in their songs, combined with White’s tendency to look perpetually distracted by daydreams while playing live. As a result the common portrait is of the man who writes all the songs and plays wicked guitar, carrying the woman who can play the drums well enough to make it through the set, but doesn’t seem to be the creative force her partner is.

But it’s awfully hard to make that sort of claim here; not only do Carter and Ansell do a much better job of visibly sharing the musical responsibilities, but both are quite clearly good at their respective instruments. Carter’s contributions are especially hard to dismiss, since her buzzsaw guitar is such a major part of the band’s sound. Not that the idea of women being able to play their instruments properly or contribute their share of the songwriting should be at all in question these days, especially when there’s more than enough evidence to satisfy anyone who’s paid any attention at all to popular music. But it’s interesting what swapping instruments between genders can do to change perceptions.