"Nothing is sacred, nothing gets you high anymore." Sam Champion singer/guitarist Noah Chernin repeatedly deadpanned those words on his Brooklyn indie rock outfit's debut full-length, 2004's Slow Rewind, a rightfully overlooked slacker-rock workout that drew less favorable comparisons to Pavement than did fellow neo-classicists Tapes 'N Tapes just a few months later. Not many people outside of New York really tasted Sam Champion's tapes. So given the subsequent critical discussion on whether or not it was too soon to revive that particular aesthetic, it seems like they were right on time-- though just as short on fresh ideas.
In the two or three years Heavenly Bender has taken to incubate, Sam Champion have taken to expanding their sound to recall more than the wry half-smiles and meanderings of Pavement. They've dirtied their jeans, studied the moves of Crazy Horse, grown fuses for detonating, and become a live band that make believers out of non-believers-- a feeling that has translated well to record here.
Opening stretches as fruitful or sweet are difficult to come by. "Like a Secret" weds ten sheets of XTC-brand sparkle to bungee guitar lines that morph from monkey bars to white squall in the course of only three minutes. "Be Mine Everyone" is a tried-and-true roadhouse burner that lives and dies by the delicious, scuzzbucket riff that drives it. While Chernin's still a near-dead ringer for Stephen Malkmus at times, his delivery-- despite shaggy obfuscations-- has found venom that matches the teeth-gnashing of the rhythm section (Jack Dolgen and Ryan Thornton) behind him. That leadoff's pace counteracts well the droll, stubbornly mid-tempo work that weighed them down previously. It also signals more: they've become a band that's broken loose zigzagging through more decades than just one, playing cards with the Zombies as often as the Pixies. No frills, less fuss.
But as clear as that opening switch to afterburners rings, much of Heavenly Bender sounds too-worn in at times, hooks still more familiar than barbed. Pitchfork's Ian Cohen noted recently in his review of Dr. Dog's latest that the album's viscosity allowed it to slide in one ear and out the other with ease. It's a problem that riddles the flatter corners of this record, particularly non-descript closer "Commitments". Anyone that grew up teething on grunge or classic rock can appreciate what's been done here, but will they come back to it? Still, cuts like the gorgeous, string-laden "Lorraine" or "We Will Awaken" and its combustive, Youngian coda are just as indicative of the band's growth. In the latter, what begins as a drizzly shuffle of piano and guitar turns into a werewolf of a song. It sits pretty in the middle of an album marred not by any shortage of riffage (see: "Jealous Shakes"), but stands out as a song you could scribble Sam Champion's name on and not someone else's.
