Don’t you love it when a self-congratulating reviewer uses an old axiom to introduce a review? You know, something like, “When it comes to Death Cab For Cutie, the squeaky wheel gets the grease.” GodDAMN, I FUCKING HATE THAT. How haughty can you get? I’m totally going to start a boycott on this practice, starting right... aaaaafter I unleash this quaint little nugget upon thee: When it comes to the Plague Park, all that glitters isn’t gold.
Ouch. As annoying as it is to hear these clichés -- which we’re all told not to use in J school -- it makes sense to use them in the context of explaining a record, because many of the same ‘rules’ that apply to life apply to music. Seriously, think about it for a second: How many of your records could be fully explained by an old saying? Off the top of my head, I’m thinking The Dears’ Gang of Losers (“You can’t always get what you want [from a follow-up]”), The Panoply Academy’s No Dead Time (“The meek [-sounding] will inherit the earth”), and hell, why not Lou Reed’s Metal Machine Music (“There’s a time and place for everything [except this record]”).
See, it’s fun (how many can YOU come up with and [e-mail->http://www.tinymixtapes.com/_Grant-Purdum_] to me?)! Age-old axioms are around for a reason; sometimes the perfect word just never bubbles to the surface no matter how hard you breathe, so you need to burp out a classic utterance. And I assure you, Plague Park absolutely does glitter. I’d wager it’s the strongest front-to-back collection of songs put out by a moonlighting Wolf Parader or maybe even by Wolf Parade itself. So why the long face, you ask? Well, I find myself disappointed with Plague Park despite its elusive initial luster. The good news is it’s an easy fix: Hire a band.
It’s as simple as that, really. If the Handsomest of all Furs would have assembled a few musicians to help them put the words and arrangements of Park to tape, we would likely have an extravaganza on our hands, a lively mix of next-level synths, gargle-happy wails, and light-dark contrasts. Instead we get a batch of songs that, save a few exceptions (“Dumb Animals,” less so “Sing! Captain”), never catch a firm gust of wind and take off, left to whiz around the room and burp out random noises like a pin-pricked balloon. There are few offerings that don’t leave me yearning for more. I’m not asking for anything too fancy either; throw me a frickin’ live-drums bone here, a bassline there, and I’m happy.
Maybe hearing gems like “Same Ghost Every Night” spoiled me; earhale tracks such as this one like a rail of coke and you have a crack-rock-solid example of what Dan Boeckner is capable of. Compared to Wolf Parade’s highlights, Plague Park suffers only because it’s more Slim Pickens than Louis Burton Lindley Jr., with drum-machine annoyances taking precedence and too many synth drones attempting to compensate for any attempt at nuance. It’s too bad because Boeckner’s voice is as appealing as ever, and the Furs’ songwriting is, as mentioned, top-notch. As such, it’s appropriate to begin a review of Plague Park with a rote, cliché’d statement after all, as Handsome Furs fall prey to the biggest indie-rock ’ché of them all: The Half-baked Side Project.