Nov 6, 2008
My first experience with mewithoutYou was this: my friend Jordan and I made fun of them ridiculously. Their song “Gentlemen” (not on this album) was released on a compilation CD that came with Taking Back Sunday’s Tell All Your Friends. Almost every time we were in the car together for a long period of time (which was quite often, back then) we would put “Gentlemen” on and do strange, angry dances and crack up until I almost ran us off the road. In our defense, I believe mewithoutYou is a band that doesn’t work nearly as well out of context. This was especially true back then, when they were making music that was even more distinct than it is now.
Needless to say, it took me a long time to give these guys a real shot. Jordan wised up before I did, and it took him at least half a year to convince me to put A->B Life (their first full length) into my stereo. I was pleasantly surprised when I did, as these guys were real rockers with a message, and they got openly emotional about things but still seemed tough while they did it. I listened to about 5 songs from the record consistently and was glad to add mewithoutYou into a long list of bands that I liked, albeit casually.
Catch for Us the Foxes changed this. It opened with this driving, anthemic appeal about loneliness and togetherness and change that seemed so far ahead of the lo-fi swash of anger and despair on A->B Life. This was music with a purpose, and it was empowering and encouraging to listen to. I remember saying once that “Torches Together” was the musical equivalent of the “I Have a Dream” speech. I stand by that statement.
Catch for Us the Foxes also has some of the meanest instrumentation found on a modern indie record. On it, the guys in mewithoutYou seem to channel 70’s jam bands, 80’s arena rock, and 90’s grunge/metal all at once. The main guitar lick of “Tie Me Up! Untie Me!” is like a brandished butterfly knife, while the verse part in “Seven Sisters” is this beautiful, delicate thing surrounded by a walls and walls of disarray.
This also has a pattern of one-upping itself. First, you think that “The Soviet” is the emotional and musical climax of the album, then “Paper Hanger” trumps it with a breakdown that feels like a kettle slowly coming to a screaming boil. It isn’t until two songs later that the true high point is revealed in the breathtaking inclusion of “The Cry of the Exodus” by Scotty Kruger in the middle of “Four Word Letter (Pt. 2).” The song starts strong and gets stripped bare, then releases the musical equivalent of an unexpected tidal wave onto the listener. It was a bold move layering this other-worldly acapella wailing into the bridge of a rock song, but it works, really works, in a way that sort of transcends the rest of the album. mewithoutYou don’t pull any punches when it comes to talking about their spirituality, both in their songs and in their everyday life, and you can feel that sense of reverence and questioning in almost all of their music. “Four Word Letter (Pt. 2),” though, is a spiritual experience. Throughout the record, there is the sense that the band’s music and feeling is too much for singer Aaron Weiss’ shaky, emotive voice, but it isn’t until this song that Weiss finally concedes, and his vocals are swallowed up by everything else that is crashing around him, and his words and melody are incomprehensible among the controlled chaos of the song.
“Carousels,” which follows “Letter,” is the inverse of its predecessor. It’s equally powerful, but internally instead of externally. Strength is replaced with humility, and the effect is has on the listener is one which is unique to this band, to these two songs.
“Son of a Widow” is, I think, often overlooked, but it’s the perfect closing track for this album. After a series of musical eruptions, one-upping, and flipped overdrive switches, this track offers an acoustic-driven lament on everything that came before it. It barely rises above a whisper, but the last line: “The son of a widow You raised from the dead / where did his soul go when he died again?” delivers as much punch and awe as anything that came before it.
Catch for Us the Foxes taught me that loud music does not equal bad music, that a band can scream and carry on with sincerity and dignity, and that you could write about Christianity without sounding like The Newsboys. I find this album inspiring, and challenging, and really, really fun to listen to. What more could you ask for?
I used to think that The Decemberists were screamo. I’m really not sure why, except for the name, which reminded me of Underoath or The Used, for whatever reason. The first song of theirs I heard was “The Mariner’s Revenge Song,” which I really liked, but made me think they were like a better version of Flogging Molly. It wasn’t until some months later that I got the chance to give Picaresque a good listen.
Let’s start with the obvious: “The Infanta” is one of the greatest opening tacks on a record there is. It does everything an opening track should—it surprises, it builds, and it paves the way for the seriously great ten tracks that follow. I’ve never become a fan of a band faster than the first time I listened to this track. If it was offered, I would’ve bought a Decemberists t-shirt before the final operatic note was sung.
Then, amazingly, the rest of the album delivered. Colin Meloy writes and sings like no one in the business, and the whole “baroque rock” deal is so…cool. Someone once told me that they felt like The Decemberists sang with the voice that I write with. I took that as a mega-compliment, and I sort of agree. I feel like The Decemberists write the songs that I would, if I had any real musical ability.
I don’t want to undermine tracks 2-5, but I think that “For My Own True Love (Lost at Sea)” is where I really started to feel this album. The longing in that song gets me every time; it really seems almost new to me every time I hear it. Then it transitions to “16 Military Wives,” which is almost odd for a Decemberists song, especially on this CD, but it works sandwiched between “True Love” and “The Engine Driver,” which is the real standout track here. It’s a song full of narratives, which I usually really, really hate, but I can never get over the line “there are powerlines / in our bloodlines,” or the way the song really kicks when Meloy starts in with the whole “writer of fictions” business, which I almost always belt out, for obvious reasons. I don’t even like “The Bus Mall” that much, but it follows “Engine Driver” perfectly, and it has a personal nostalgia that is a little contagious. Suddenly, I’m identifying with these pool hall punks and I don’t even know why.
I’ve already mentioned “The Mariner’s Revenge Song,” and if you haven’t heard it, you really should. It’s a completely original experience, unless you hang out a lot of people that sing sea shanties. My first copy of Picaresque didn’t include the final track, “Of Angels and Angles,” but I’m glad about this fact. It made the first time I heard the song a minor miracle, because I had a record that I thought couldn’t get any better, and then I hear this lullaby and become a true believer. The first time I heard it, I honestly thought “I would like to sing this to my kids someday.”
Anyway. Picaresque is in the list because it moved me and continues to move me. I think The Decemberists are one of the few bands that don’t seem to be changing too much, despite the fact that they’ve been picked up by a major label and are supported by everyone from Zach Braff to Howard Schultz. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed every album they put out—including The Tain, the one-track experiment no one ever really talks about—but none of them have been so precisely spot-on, crisp, or touching as this one. I think I’ll put it in now.
