It may upset folks rooting for Howler that they continuously get compared to the Strokes, but it's not like the band doesn't deserve it. After all, these affable Minnesotans offer the sort of spry and strummy "no bullshit" rock music that made tons of folks spring for the more expensive and less tastefully covered version of Is This It more than 10 years ago. That Howler's transformation from local faves to darlings of the international music press was aided by favorable write-ups in both The New York Times and the NME, as well as the breathless, semi-mythic pursuit of Rough Trade Records-- the storied UK label reportedly flew overseas to sign the band based on its unsolicited demo-- only help strengthen the spiritual bond between these two groups.
It also helps (or hurts) that Howler frontman Jordan Gatesmith often offers his thoughts about love and loneliness in the same sort of laconic faux-macho groan that Julian Casablancas should've trademarked. But while Gatesmith, at the ripe age of 19, isn't much younger than Casablancas was when the ink dried on the Strokes' first contract, he's not nearly as comfortable striking the same disaffected poses. If anything, Howler suffer the more Gatesmith resembles Casablancas, partially because he's not pitching the same kind of game. Howler's hearts are firmly affixed on their sleeves, right below a magic-marker version of the Weezer "flying W." When Gatesmith's yawp collides with Howler's more sensitive sentiments-- for example, his shirt-rending complaints about necking on "Wailing (Making Out)"-- it's not a good look. Howler are better off when Gatesmith veers towards flattering another New York City music icon, Joey Ramone (as on "This One's Different"), or simply making sure that he doesn't get too excited.
At this point in their ridiculously young career, though, Howler's best look is when Gatesmith isn't on the mic. As mentioned, Howler have got a little Strokes in their music as well, though any semblance of post-punk cool's been swapped out for some truly old-time rock'n'roll vibes. Gatesmith might still be playing catch up with the Rolling Stones (according to this interview with the MinnPost), but the group's deployment of Chuck Berry-esque licks and various Spectorian flourishes (including yet another "Be My Baby" drumbeat nod) shows they at least have a cursory knowledge of the classics. They also have a way with dynamics; I wouldn't be surprised if the two-tiered guitar assault essayed on the chorus of "Beach Sluts" was the result of someone wanting to approximate what the 11 on the volume knob would sound like.
Why the album kicks off with "Beach Sluts" and not a standout track like "Back of Your Neck", though, is beyond me. The latter's affable charm (corny Bonnie & Clyde shout-out notwithstanding) is a much better first foot forward. But that track finds itself on the album's back end, grouped with the hazy (possibly shoegazey) "Free Drunk" and carefree, surf-friendly "Black Lagoon", all of them highlights. Instead, the album follows up a somewhat bracing introductory note with an assortment of OK to not-so-OK tunes that ultimately congeal into an undifferentiated, if intermittently enjoyable, lump, before ending on a high note. In other words, America Give Up is inconsistent and derivative yet promising, and not nearly as impressive as some early adopters would have people believe: a pretty typical rock group's first album. And there's absolutely nothing wrong with that.
