Disgustingly emo as Portugal. The Man tend to be, Waiter: You Vultures! pits annoying, whiny tendencies against immediately pleasing elbow-jabs of guitar, synths, tha digital shit, and sing-a-longs that will have you forgetting about your Fairweather phobia in no time. Helmed by former members of Anatomy Of A Ghost, these Alaska natives don several fur hats on their way to the ice-fishin' spot, displaying a heady mix of influences that's tough to pin down despite several familiar flashes of color.
Buuut let's not start suckin' each others meatplows just yet; there's a problem here, one that could very well find the group plunging into indienymity with the other sackless saps. For all their originality, Portugal. The Man besmirch their tunes by zipping through 13 songs without any semblance of wax and wane; rise and ripple; climax and comedown.
Much like promising albums such as The Orphins' Drowning Cupid, Waiter never stops filling your coffee cup, even as you protest and beg for decaf ["Sanka would be nice, with more cream; I think this is curdled. Oh, and can I get an extra napkin and... could you do me a favor and wash that perfume off before you come back to the table? Thaaaaanks" ... Now how much do I tip? The meal was $7 – do I have to throw a buck in? Because 80-90 cents would be more precise. Should I ask for change of a dollar? Naw, then I'll seem cheap. Wait! I have three quarters in my pocket, now I just have to find a nickel. Damn, don't have one. I thought I noticed the cook glaring at me from behind the back counter, and the eggs were undercooked. What's going on with that? Salmonella could be bubbling up in my crockpot right NOW! That'll cost the server – it's not fair, but life isn't fair. Fuck I hate myself. Maybe I'll order a slice of pie; the key lime looks good. Yeah, key lime; it's like eating a creamy, tender, baked Mamba for dessert. What ever happened to Mambas? I had this great idea at a waterslide park once: Mambars... I actually pretended that they already existed to fool my friend. I squished a bunch of Mambas together and said, "Hey! Look, they invented a new candybar!" You know, to gage his reaction. He seemed to believe me but he gave me a strange look when I joyously revealed the coy ruse, like maybe he didn't understand why I would have done something like that. But let's put all the cards on the table: Who wouldn't pick up a Mambar instead of a Mamba? I wish it were possible to go to business school without donning a biz-pone and sleazy suit... I'd be up in that shit real quick, but it's an unspoken rule. I wonder if Storck Industries would want to hire a Mamba man ... now there's a job you can respect. This journalism stuff is shit. Oop, I'm choking on bacon fat ... ] .
Anyhoo, the brilliant variety of tempos, instruments, and phrasing are offset by the rocksteady, rote plateau the songs tend to settle into, and the cocksteady vocals, too high-register NOT to grate after a full-length album, don't help much. Randy enthusiasm for their respective crafts keeps principle members John Gourley (guitar) and Zach Carothers (bass/vox) – flanked by rank-and-filers Wes Hubbard (keys/vox) and Jason Sechrist (drums) – above water, but anything more than an EP's worth of material seems like more a test than a treat.
Look baby, despite my supple figure and so-soft-it-must-be-Swedish skin, I'm a cocksman, through and through: I want my rock 'n' roll hard, fast, and inventive as much as the next dude. Portugal manage a palatable sound charging straight ahead, but lack that intangible quality that makes repeat listening a given; the finesse to push, lick, and seal the envelope. A little less-is-more attitude would go a long way toward shoring up the cracks and creases of Waiter: You Vultures! That said, this is a fun album the kids are gonna eat up with a studded spork. But it's no Mambar.
1. How The Leopard Got Its Spots
2. Gold Fronts
3. Stables And Chairs
4. AKA M80 The Wolf
5. Marching With 6
6. Elephants
7. Waiter
8. Chicago
9. Bad Bad Levi Brown
10. Kill Me The King
11. Tommy
12. Horse Warming Party
13. Guns... Guns... Guns
More about: Portugal. The Man
