It seems like a half-century ago at this point, but Hot Hot Heat were, at one time, amazing. They were ahead of their time when they created the shocking songs found on a compilation of early material, Scenes One Through Thirteen, combining a sickly brew of witch-doctor punk warbles with synths that stabbed you square in the face. Strangely, it seems that once Johnny and The Moon frontman Dante DeCaro joined HHH they went in a pop-driven direction. Though the transformation didn't immediately tarnish the Hot Hot Heat sound, most notably on debut EP Knock Knock Knock -- of which this writer, taking baby steps as a rock scribe, wrote “Hot Hot Heat are Knock Knock Knock-ing at the door, and should be let in” -- man, it hurts like a bitch to dredge that up -- things eventually went the way of the lumbering commercial buffalo, resulting in material that didn't follow through on the scalding promise of the band's best work. Did DeCaro leave HHH in 2005 because he sensed this, or did he want to join Wolf Parade? Either way, it was a good move because it contributed to the formation of a fascinating band, Johnny and The Moon.
Just be sure to squeeze Hot Hot Heat and Wolf Parade from your mind completely before you take this self-titled debut for a test drive, as Johnny putters around on a banjo -- the instrument equivalent of an old jalopy -- and slops the arrangements up with a fiercely emotive yelp that seems to integrate the best elements of Aidan Moffat's detached song-speak and the sort of singing you might hear on a Sons & Daughters album. And that's a good thing. DeCaro's vocals rove all across the countryside with the abandon of a recently freed sheep-dog, his steady-as-she-goes arrangements leaning and bending like tufts of long grass in a stiff breeze, always keeping their roots firmly intact. At times you'll hear sounds you can't reconcile with what seems to be an alt. country/Americana template, but Johnny and The Moon are best aligned with indie rock in general anyway, seeing as soupy synths join hammy harmonicas, bawlin', sweet-berry banjos, grainy production ethics, and tub-thumpin' meat-'n'-taters percussion at the dinner table.
Yep, Johnny'll be comin' 'round the mountain to yer neck of the woods any day now, so don't miss the supper bell. In fact, I'd suggest invitin' him in an' lettin' him rest up his dogs for a spell, as Johnny and The Moon proves to be yet another slice of wonderment from the up-north neck of the woods. DeCaro's singing is urgent; he's addressing the town square, warning the simple folk about an impending danger rather than pitching out melodies because he's supposed to as a performer. His urgency makes a huge difference, as the album wouldn't be the same without his sincerity, and the synth interludes are gorgeous; I'll be damned if they don't duplicate the soundtrack to Goonies, specifically when the kids find an underground waterfall and Sean Astin's little-bitch character makes out with his brother's woman before launching into a diatribe on One-Eyed Willie. Surely one of the high-watermark moments in film history, no? Seriously though, hearing that was just-plain creepy, but I'm likely a better person for it.
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