Using a drum machine to replicate a live backing band tends to have the opposite effect, making solo home recorders sound even more isolated. Case in point, American Wrestlers’ self-titled debut. As of now, it’s Gary McClure’s project and his alone, but the songs won’t require a lot of maintenance to be ready for the road: guitars, bass, piano and vocals are layered about the same way they would have if American Wrestlers were just four guys in a cheap studio. But there’s always that rigid, so on-the-beat-it’s-actually-off thwack of a snare, a bass drum that sounds like a blown subwoofer and the occasional hint of McClure hitting the power switch on the thing—all reminders that American Wrestlers is McClure starting a rock band with his imaginary friends.
Until about a month ago, American Wrestlers was in fact a pointedly anonymous project, an attention-seeking tactic that went out of fashion right about the time Burial went public. The music feels a few steps behind the times as well, but that's a major component of its charm. Perhaps coincidentally, the album shares some of the best qualities of Fat Possum's major 2011 releases: the dog-eared alt-rock melodies of Yuck’s debut; the lo-fi, low-end thump of Youth Lagoon’s The Year of Hibernation; the (also formerly incognito) Unknown Mortal Orchestra’s oddball psych odysseys.
Regardless of the promo-cycle theatrics, the songs themselves tend to make strong first impressions. McClure leads songs off with breezy guitar leads, memorable titles become indelible lyrics, choruses make satisfying, expected leaps. And despite its disheveled exterior, McClure’s lyrics generate positive energy out of bad vibes: "There’s No One Crying Over Me Either" and "I Can Do No Wrong" respectively turn self-pity and a lack of introspection into superpowers.
There’s no simple genre tag for American Wrestlers, though singles "Kelly" and "I Can Do No Wrong" imagine an alternate history where Phoenix started their career as Tascam 4-trackers. The grubby production appears to be a product of necessity, the natural result of McClure’s rudimentary equipment and skills rather than an allegiance to lo-fi aesthetics, but it still lends American Wrestlers a distinct character: The 12-string sparkle of "I Can Do No Wrong" gets toned down just enough to not be blinding. And had the singles been given a properly sync-ready production, you might already be tired of hearing them from a commercial for macrobrews or luxury sedans.
The highlights of American Wrestlers reveal themselves immediately, but elsewhere on the record McClure demonstrates a curious ability to bury concise hooks in otherwise-doughy or unfinished songs. The contrast between the southern rock lead of "Holy" and its passages of National-esque piano is intriguing on first exposure; it is not enough intrigue to sustain a six-minute song on its own. "Wild Yonder" evokes the ear-turning pitter-patter of Sparklehorse’s balladry and would’ve served as a nice shift in tone had it been three minutes, but it goes on for nearly twice that long.
This pattern repeats itself on the album's Side B, when "Kelly" is followed by "Left" and "Cheapshot", 18 minutes of music that you can hear straining for "epic" but fail to generate any real volume dynamics or textural motion. These shots at a bigger sound only end up fully demonstrating the limitations of McClure’s compositional methods.
It's in these moments where it occurs to you that the biggest problem with a solo project is that there's no one there to tell you "no." At some point during the ponderous stretches of "Wild Yonder" or "Cheapshot" or "Left", perhaps McClure would've noticed someone else in the band starting to drift off or suggested that maybe he should get to the chorus more quickly. "I Can Do No Wrong" may be a highlight on American Wrestlers, but the title sentiment is his project's Achilles heel.
