Yo La Tengo's classic mid-1990s run (Painful, Electr-o-Pura, and I Can Hear the Heart Beating as One) perfectly embodied the era's collective embrace of the mix-tape-as-courtship-device. These records were sprawling yet intimate, stylistically all over the map yet purposefully constructed. And whether they took the form of earwax-melting noise freakouts or bossa nova lullabies, they always projected the unmistakable, endearing personalities of their makers. But technological changes over the past decade have rendered the mix-tape (or CD-R) an outmoded concept as the shuffled playlist has become the cornerstone of our contemporary listening habits. What was once a unique, painstakingly assembled listening experience has become our default mode.
And true to their quietly contrarian, trend-averse nature, Yo La Tengo have responded to our accelerated, quick-click culture with a more patient approach: Since 2000's And Then Nothing Turned Itself Inside-Out, their albums have mostly favoured calming consistency over unpredictable pastiche, while their more outre interests have been redirected toward side projects (see: the garage-punk goofiness of Condo Fucks) or improvised soundtrack work (2002's The Sounds of the Sounds of Science). And even though their most recent releases have shown a renewed interest in stretching songs past the 10-minute mark, these extended pieces are segregated from the more pop-oriented material on the tracklist, serving as bookends (2006's I Am Not Afraid of You and I Will Beat Your Ass) or shunted off to separate sides of vinyl (2009's Popular Songs).
Fade takes the refinement process one step further, revisiting the brief, breezy-listening forms of Popular Songs' first two sides, but lopping off the backloaded free-form excursions entirely. And at a tight 10 songs and 46 minutes, it's the band's shortest album since 1990's Fakebook. But none of that is to suggest Fade is any more slight than its heftier predecessors. Even as Yo La Tengo lean to their quieter side here, the band's sense of playfulness comes through. Produced by John McEntire, Fade lets you appreciate the complexity of its simplicity. It may trod over some familiar turf-- Georgia Hubley's fuzz-pop standout "Paddle Forward" squeezes another drop of blood from "Sugarcube"-- but the relaxed pacing and pleasing melodies belie just how much action is really going on beneath the serene surfaces.
Truth is, Fade can be every bit as adventurous as the band's most eclectic albums, but applies its myriad layers in more subtle fashion: The opening "Ohm" locks into its shuffling, clap-along tabla-funk groove and repetitive, corrosive jangle riff for its full six-minute-plus duration, before gradually thickening the guitar noise and organ drone until the anodyne group-unison vocals transform from monotone to mantra. Centerpiece track "Stupid Things" is even more sublime, beginning with some tranquil, exploratory guitar noodling from Ira Kaplan that summons a brushed-snare beat resembling a krautrock skiffle, and sets its chorus aflight on a pillowy bed of strings. And the hazy, soft-focus balladry of "Two Trains" is beautifully bent out of shape by a wobbly, dubwise rhythm.
As ever, Kaplan and Georgia Hubley's lyrics assume the form of overheard, one-way conversations between intimates falling in and out of love. And even in Fade's most sanguine moments, there's a sense of unease creeping into Yo La Tengo's little corner of the world. The smooth Motown-by-way-of-Thrill Jockey moves of "Well You Better" belie Kaplan's anxious demands ("Baby, make up your mind"); "Is That Enough" tries to gloss over its sense of doubt and defeat with cheeky string-section fills, but the distant, distorted guitar line buzzing in the background offers a lingering reminder of the bitterness being suppressed. Fade threatens to become too preoccupied with understated details during its increasingly subdued second act, and yet that sense of restraint just makes the triumphant finale "Before We Run" soar all the more gloriously, elevating Hubley's humble melody with a euphoric brass-and-string fanfare. It may not herald another big day coming, but Fade is a thoroughly immersive dusk-to-dawn soundtrack to a dark night's passing.
