As I said the other day, summer's looming shadow is cast
upon me, and I am resolved to spend as much outdoor time as possible before the
climate here becomes "like stepping into someone's mouth" as aptly described by
a friend, so I decided to walk to the coffee shop in stead of drive. Now I don't
know how much of my reading audience shares
A discarded hospital bracelet.
A freshly hit possum outside the bus lane of an elementary school.
A mysterious pile of army men in the middle of the street.
The fact that my vintage Stan Smith's are great for garnering complements from the tennis shoe aficionados, but they are not the best at arch support.
The reason that I am not only revealing the process of my
walk, and reveling in it, but also highlighting the little details that punctuate
the glorious monotony of Spring is
because I chose Panda Bear's Person Pitch as my soundtrack, and that is
precisely what he does on this record.
Each song on this latest solo outing from Animal Collective's Noah Lennox
is constructed around a loop, a simple and often obvious loop, the kind that
those who have known the rarified pleasure of the Casio Sk-1 recognize
immediately, and his Brian Wilson-meets-Martin Denny-meets barbiturates harmony
and croon lilting over it. "Comfy in Nautica" sets the pace with a martial
chant and handclap loop over which
"Take Pills" has a slightly more mechanical loop to it, sounding like half-recorded packing machines over which a minimalist stoner psyche groove is placed. On much of this record, the lead vocals are placed in the background, issuing slowly from time-lapse footage. "I'm Not" is rooted around a stardust wave that persists the song and PB rides it like it's a cartoon comet, letting the mist collect in his hair. It's hippie business to be sure, but the kind that takes the infinite as some sort of empirical experience rather than something cool to talk about around the bong. "Search for Delicious" and "Ponytail" both render these droning curiosities into something closer to regular songs, particularly "Ponytail," a hushed ballad sung by a drugged children's choir.
It's in the long songs that my third eye gets pried open. The 12-minute "Bros" opens with an owl hoot and a sleigh bell jingle that makes this thing both relentless and imminently accessible. Throughout the piece, there are whooshes and rushes that sound like cars passing on the street below ones' open apartment window. About halfway through, the loops appear to double back on themselves and a more tribal campfire guitar and tambourine pulse appears. This is the kind of ritual beating system that makes Animal Collective's Sung Tongs one of my favorite records, and in many ways, this song is his finest hour, adding the right recombinant strain to the DNA at the right moment. "Good Girl/Carrots" is less successful, coming off at disparate parts that would have been better served being miniatures spread throughout the record rather than taken as a whole. Each part is a nice little jaunt on its own, especially the sing song sine-wave ditty toward the back end of it but it gets lost in a number of loops that sound like leftovers. Still Panda Bear's scraps are more interesting than most, serving as discarded hospital bracelets and squished possums on the golden road down which this exquisite record beckons you.