Not far from my ritzy Capitol City digs is a gigantic piece of graffiti, proudly emblazoning the name of El Guapo. Now, I'm not sure if this is an ambitious advertising campaign for the band (seeing as they also hail from the city of circling helicopters, anti-aircraft batteries, and Gulf War vet snipers), or the inspiration behind the name. But no matter what you think of El Guapo, it's a better name than the other graffiti on that same wall: BONER.
These guys have been together since 1996, initially releasing their crazy art-punk through such microindies as Mud Memory, Red Skies at Night and Resin. But don't be fooled by the Dischord label their records have sported since last year's Super/System-- this is hardly the Fugazi-derived post-punk fare the label built its name on, and is only tenuously related to the dancepunk the company's been peddling of late. No, El Guapo strikes out for more experimental territory, full of quirky chanting and uneasy arrangements. Let's say it's like Le Tigre, only non-aggressive, less conventional, un-female, and apolitical-- does that leave anything?
One thing that's clear is that El Guapo sure loves themselves some vocal interplay, that being the element most central to all 12 songs on Fake French. Sounding a little bit like the inspiring story of three guys who always dreamed of a career in cheerleading, the group tries out all styles of group singing: call and response ("The Time: Night"), "Row Row Row Your Boat" rounds ("Space Tourist"), "Transylvania 6-5000"-style big band shoutouts ("Ocean and Sky"). And despite that reference-packed rundown, it adds up to an original sound when set against the nervous compubeats, samples, and occasional accordion freakout of the backdrop. It even makes for above-average robot-dance music on the opener, "Glass House".
After that, it drives me up the fucking wall. Seriously, "Row Row Row Your Boat" as a touchpoint? Who wouldn't need a couple Excedrin after that? The often cyclical and trance-repetitive nature of the vocals plays slowdown with the clock, making the typically two or three minute songs drag on for what seems like double that, the lean 35:00 of the album feeling like a triple LP . When the backing music is in tip-top shape (the concise-Tortoise of the title track) the vocals are a distraction; when the orchestration is of a minimal nature ("Hawks, "Hollywood Crew") the campfire-singing is torturous.
Surprisingly, for an album permanently brandishing a big red EXPERIMENTAL stamp, Fake French only reaches its highest points with the relatively straightforward, timely tracks that clash a little bit of the electro: "Just Don't Know" and "Underground". The rest of the album is chock-full of music that sounds largely original and hardly enjoyable. So despite our shared city roots, and the fact that they'll probably beat me up next time I attend a Ft. Reno show, and my hunch that the title track is about the EPCOT Center (are they saying "laser lights beyond the pocky ball?" It's gotta be, right?), I'm gonna have to take a pass on El Guapo and Fake French. Stick to graffiti, boys.
