It takes a lot of work to grow up in Austin, Texas and manage to go through life with a live-music deficiency, but around late '98, I was one of the few diagnosed with this ailment. Although the condition is severe, it can be easily remedied within a good 14-16 months (or one Les Savy Fav show, whichever comes first). As the treatment-- which consists, unsurprisingly, of going to shows-- progressed, I began donning a host of new traits and characteristics, all symptomatic of my burgeoning addiction to the spectacle of live performance, an insatiable mistress that will leave you penniless and in the gutter if not carefully restrained (or so I'm told). Restraint, however, is something I've yet to exhibit.
You see, when the Polyphonic Spree came through town opening for headlining heavyweights Built to Spill, my pocketbook told me not to go. Actually, my pocketbook and an invoice from Wells Fargo were both fighting to dissuade me from blowing my last $15 on such an obvious one-night stand. But anyone will tell you that the call of Doug Martsch is not to be ignored, even if he is touring in support of a mediocre album. So with high spirits and a slightly altered dieting plan for the proceeding month, I bought the ticket and took the ride.
Having had no formal experience with the Polyphonic Spree, I ignorantly deduced from the name that I was in for about an hour of freely traded rhymes about pop culture and sneakers, the way the Sugarhill Gang used to drop it, while 25 figures clad in nothing but unkempt white robes and Cheshire-cat smiles slowly lumbered onto the stage. As my eyes discerned the familiar form of ex-Tripping Daisy frontman Tim DeLaughter, my first inclination was to scale the four-foot protective barricade that acted as the group's metallic moat and shake him vigorously in an effort to deprogram the fallen Texas auteur. But as I stood there, waiting for a vat of Kool-Aid-flavored cyanide to make its appearance and confirm my deepest, darkest fears, I began to notice the song that was stirring to life on stage.
What ensued was a revivalist get-down that would put any Episcopalian minister to shame. DeLaughter's warbling vocals, unwavering heavenward gaze, and beaming smile seemed to speak for the entire group (which consists of two percussionists, a choir, and a theremin player, amongst others). In fact, the evening could have easily found the Polyphonic Spree upstaging any number of lesser headliners, were they not Built to Spill. So then why does this, the Spree's first album, released on DeLaughter's own Good Records label, seem so... unimaginative?
As it stands, the Polyphonic Spree are the musical approximation of saccharin, in that they make a great substitute for pure, unadulterated twee. But, also like saccharin, they are possibly cancerous in heavy doses. The more anthemic crowd-pleasing numbers littered throughout The Beginning Stages of the Polyphonic Spree boast such endlessly repeated refrains as "Hey/ It's the Sun/ And it makes me Shine," which lose a lot of their appeal when taken out of their natural habitat (the live setting) and placed between your headphones. In the end, the experience becomes less like our generation's "Takin' Care of Business" and more like those fireside sing-alongs you were coerced into participating in at summer camp.
The album, comprised of 10 "sections," chronicles a group whose only precedents are the familiar melodies of lazy 1970s AM radio and inspirational religious cable TV programming. Luckily, though, the group has an unrealized experimental side which can be attributed with some of the album's most exciting moments and one the disc's best songs ("Section 4"). But for every risk taken, there's a counterproductive indulgence. A good example of this is "Section 3," which begins as a stunning meditation on guitar and viola before suddenly being overwhelmed by pan flutes and self-parodying chimes. I mean it when I say that it's the best ballad John Stamos has done since he covered the Beach Boys' "Forever."
The Beginning Stages, sadly, never approaches anything greater than novelty. Given the fact that the Polyphonic Spree are a self-proclaimed "choral symphonic pop band," most songs come off like mid-70s Todd Rundgren (ouch!) with multi-tracked vocal harmonies. The premise for the group is admittedly genius, but if DeLaughter's goal is to distill their stage presence and the giddiness conjured at Spree performances onto compact disc, he and his Polyphonic friends will have to find a way to work around their music's seemingly necessary visual accompaniment.
