Some poeple can't get No Respect: One Time Bells

Introducing the No Respect series, a new project dedicated to praising the unappreciated or overlooked. Well see how long this lasts, but I hope this will pull me away from the pointless ranting (raving) that I've become fond of. Today, I start with early aughts post punk revival also-rans and current d-listers, the French Kick's first album, One Time Bells.

French Kicks - One Time Bells

   First, a little history (skip down a couple paragraphs for the real review if this bores you to tears). I found out about this album while searching amazon.com for similar artists to the Strokes while in Newspaper class. Just sorta killing time while I pissed away the first two class periods of the day. On Amazon there was an ad banner for "Hot New York bands" which advertised both the Walkmen's debut album and this little forgotten gem. Interesting that the ad was not much more than the above words and pictures of said albums. Also interesting that this was all it took to convince me that I desperately needed both albums immediately, a distant time of nievete for both the internet and myself. Also, who knew the tiny Startime label had such a marketing budget? The hunt had begun. I listened closely to 30 second clips of all the songs and thought, oh boy, this is like the Strokes but a bit more distant and cold, more rough around the edges, more believably a real underground band. I had to have it.
   A few weeks later I was in Chicago for a youth group midwinter formal. Like prom for frustrated christian kids set in Chicago featuring shopping at Watertower, a night at the Holiday Inn, dinner at fuck if I can remember, and classical music brought to you by the Moody Bible Institute's symphony orchestra. Honestly not the worst evening I've ever spent in Chicago. I snuck off to the poolroom that night to stare at the skyline and dream of urban fantasies. The next day while shopping, I made my way to Borders on Michigan determined to buy this album to soundtrack said fantasies. I asked the clerk for the album and she said she'd hadn't heard of it (YES!! I WIN!) but was able to track it down. $14 dollars later I cradled the digipak in my hands and basked in the glow of a perfect find. I was at this point, surely the coolest kid in my youth group, and not too secretly breaking away from the pack.
   I didn't get to listen to the album until I got home due to a draconian no headphones rule in the church van. At this point, I think I was about to kill someone as I watched the skyline disappear as we made our way back to the permagrey of northwestern Indiana.
   When I finally got home, CD on deck, headphones in and pushed play, I can't say I was blown to pieces. But my ears were perked. Something about the angular warbly guitars, the never totally on key singing, and the incredibly dry production almost put me off. But the songs were good, and most had one or two oh-shit moments. It wasn't much like anything else I'd heard. Eventually those quirks would be what made this album so unlike some of my other favorites at that time. I can tell now that the rough aesthetic is a choice, but it isn't put overtop the music, it worked within the dynamics of the songs. It gives the album a hungry almost amateur quality. The use of space in the production is disjointed and boxy, some sounds sounding stuffed in a corner, some right in your face, usually in the reverse order you expect. It all could just be amateur recording techniques, but it works very well for the album.
   And the songs. Again, they're not gonna change your life (although, at a certain age, they could), but they are solid and original. Built from a little hardcore, some garage rock, some modish power pop, and a little falsetto, the tracks sounded familiar enough to be uncanny, and they just barely seem to work. Honestly, there are moments that grate (the falsetto on Close to Modern) that risk making the rest of the work feel tenuous. But the Kicks keep it up and deliver assuredly. So much so that they pull off some tricks that in the hands of a lesser band would sound like total shit. The vocals for instance are lazy and a little sardonic, the tender spots almost bordering on parody. Add the fact that none of their voices are instantly memorable, I start to wonder how they even pulled this off. And yet, there's something unassuming about the album that stands in stark relief to everything that came out of New York at this time (since for that matter). Funny that the understated quality is what I find so comforting and lasting about this album, when it's not really what I was looking for at the time, and that this trait has arguably been a hindrance for the band. Much like the Walkmen, the songs make me pine for a time that never existed.* That really is an interesting emotion and rare quality, one that has to be hard to pull off.
   Unfortunately, the Kicks' career has been short of illustrious. Every once in a (great) while I'll read an apologetic review of a new French Kicks release, the long and short of which are always "these guys are alright, I feel bad for them though." As much as I love their debut, their proceeding albums have tended toward slick pop and are (from what I've heard) kinda boring. Which is something you could say about One Time Bells, but you'd be missing on the perfect pop gems like "When you heard you" or "1985" and a propulsive if obtuse line up of songs that have amazingly only gotten better with age.

*This I have to credit to Andy X

Reasons why I love Kurt Vile

Let's start with some lyrics:

"I've got a hunchback, big as a humpback whale"

   Bedroom pop that is humble and scuzzy yet expansive, panoramic. Like Robert Pollard, Vile takes ordinary images and explodes them into epic, fantastical proportions. It's simple and a little whimsical, but not the fey whimsy endemic to thin-wristed singer songwriters. It's psychedelic without constantly referring back to the Nuggets fakebook. And yeah, you could compare it to Tom Petty or Springsteen, except minus the Dylan worship or overreaching grandeur. As silly as the above lyric is, it's not just a toss off. It reflects the lumbering and menacing tone of the song, while also being a handy metaphor for being ostracized. Looking at the covers of the Hunchback EP, Constant Hitmaker, or excellent new album Childish Prodigy, you get the sense of booth cool detachment and a hint of loneliness. But not the loneliness of a twee popper always pining away for his femme fetale. More of a precocious loner who always looks cool and a little menacing at your parties, but is actually quite funny with a couple of beers in him.

"I've got a trumpet, I know where to dump it"

   Vile knows when to stick with a nonsensical lyric when it fits so perfectly with the rhythm of the song. He's having fun for sure, and wants you to laugh a little bit. Not unlike Malkmus with his nonsequitors, it adds levity and charm to what is ostensibly, another song about being alone. You think it's all head in the clouds until later in the song he sings:

"There was a kid in the trees among the birds and the bees

 between beehives and bird's nests and I think you know the rest

he wanted to be free with them, but they weren't believing

pecking and stinging him till he wasn't breathing."

  Which is just one of many sly turns and unexpected surprises of his records. I could go on, but I don't want to spoil them. Suffice to say I haven't heard a voice or songwriting style like Vile's in a while. And in the context of the lo-fi resurgence (or what-have-you) he stands apart from the crowd.

   And what about the music? Well, at times he's a slow burner. He's not afraid to kick out a long scuzzy jamout, but he's usually more comfortable singing over bluesy acoustic guitar, accompanied by tape hiss and whatever is lying around. The music takes it's time, laying down a perfect backdrop for Vile to get into his groove. Because of this, his voice and music always sound perfectly in sync.