There’s nothing worse than reading an apologetic review, wherein a critic can’t just say they liked a Rage Against The Machine performance or Nine Inch Nails album without floating disclaimers like “I hate to admit it, BUT” -- it’s the least gutsy thing a journalist of any kind can do. These days, it doesn’t take balls to hype the new Animal Collective record; rather, what takes true gumption is the championing of the acts we’ve all long tagged as ‘out of the loop.’ If you want to spot a critic that truly doesn’t give a fuck about the maddeningly insular — and yes, pretentious — ideals of faux ‘indie’ culture, look for the write-up that isn’t ashamed to extol the virtues of something that might be seen as un-chic in the eyes of the ball-gagging snark-herders.
To emphasize my point, I’ll tell you the same thing I told an editor at my first music-reporting job at a now-defunct weekly: “If you degrade a band for their image and reputation without listening to their music, you’re worse than the teenyboppers that listen to them because of their image and reputation.” I made this statement during an argument I had with my supervisor. He was a little tweaked by the fact that I slammed the hell out of a terrible Brian Setzer album while being semi-merciful toward an early Blink 182 release. Then, proving he truly didn’t have any opinions of his own, he author-dropped a New York Times piece that derided Blink and the rest of the acts filling the Top-40 at the time (2000 or so).
Which is, to anyone that was around during the Backstreet Boys’ heyday, total and complete NONENSE. As shoddy as Blink’s material became over the years, I preferred to see a band that wrote their own songs and played their own instruments — and, more importantly, did time on the indie circuit before their rise to fame — on the charts over the crop of boy bands that immediately preceded them. It’s a no-brainer. To this day, I can still see my boss’ face as he righteously showed me the New York Times article — as if its existence alone were undeniable proof that I had erred — and it gives me the Willie Ds. After seeing how age and ignorance had so warped my former editor’s borrowed ‘views,’ I decided that one of my main initiatives as a record reviewer would be to focus on... WAIT FOR IT... music when I reviewed an album. No more jealousy, no more alterior considerations, no more evaluations of privilege, appearance, hype, and status. Easier said than done, sure, but I did my best to, to paraphrase Tammy Wynette, stand by my mantra. When Is This It made its way into my hands, I honestly didn’t do any research because I knew I wouldn’t like what I’d find. And guess what? It was much easier to enjoy The Strokes’ debut without considering Julian Casablancas’ modeling-mogul father and the rest of the band’s rich-bitch status.
Even more important — hopefully this rant isn’t becoming too hypocritically self-righteous at this point — was getting rid of that still, small voice that says, “Am I supposed to like this?” in the back of my head when I hear a band like The Pierces, whose pop ambitions are off-putting to someone so naturally enthralled by more experimental recordings. But let it be said: Thirteen Tales of Love and Revenge, despite several dead spots, is a good listen — albeit one I couldn’t legitimately recommend to the majority of this site’s readers. They lay down some schmaltzy jams, and their lyrics border on MTV camp at times, but don’t hate their ambitions; there’ll be plenty of time for that if they actually make it. For now, if you enjoy unapologetic pop, revel in being one of the first on-board.
One of the best aspects of The Pierces, aside from their pristine tandem vocals, is their duality. Within songs like “Boring,” they appeal to all the worst segments of the big-city population — drugheads, Paris Hilton/Paris Hilton wannabes, beautiful people that are always uninterested in everything and everyone — in a way that might leave a superficial, leather-pants-wearing asshole thinking he’s found his kindred spirits as he blasts it from his factory-fresh Hummer on the way to a Los Angeles brunch. But look closer and you’ll see a tongue and a cheek, one firmly implanted in the other; it’s just so subtle that its totally and completely un-subtle subjects won’t recognize that they’re being lampooned. And when The Pierces make you want to wretch with their lyrics pertaining to relationships, you can always skip to the next track.
Just so you know what you’re getting into, I’ll now highlight one of the more painful aspects of Thirteen Tales. For one, you’ll encounter lyrics like this in the “Dream a Little Dream of Me”-sounding “Boy in a Rock and Roll Band”: Take off all the clothes that you have on/ and make love to me until the sun comes up/ or until we decide we are done. You should also know that songs such as “Lights On” really don’t sound that disparate from, say, something Gwen Stefani might put out. It’s unfortunate if you don’t like automaton drum-machine beats and generic arrangements, but most of these tunes hold up surprisingly well considering their ingredients.
It’s also important to note that many of The Pierces compositions — especially once you get to the album’s second half — are rooted astray from the penny-arcade pop radar. A good portion of these tracks are more along the lines of an alt. country lullaby or that Aimee Mann song that plays during the Magnolia scene where the cokehead chick is straightening up her apartment after a cop knocks on her door. As such, there is much to be enjoyed here if you can keep an open mind. Granted (I love using that word), Thirteen Tales of Love & Revenge won’t become a staple in your listening rotation unless you routinely partake in the work of the artists listed above under the ‘Others’ tab, but that doesn’t render this recording obsolete by any means. If you can let your prejudices slide for a few minutes, give these 13 tracks a listen and gain at least a smidge of appreciation for The Pierces medium. Or not...
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