When in doubt, use pop psychology. Now, I'm no expert on the mechanics of the human psyche, but I've managed to piece together a semblance of expertise from horoscopes, radio call-in shows, The Sopranos, and the smattering of Freud I was forced to read as an undergrad (not to mention the invaluable contribution of my own mental shortcomings-- fuck my mother, indeed!). Sure, it doesn't add up to a diploma on the wall of my office, but it gives me the authority to comment liberally on the emotional well-being of friends and co-workers. Impressive credentials? No shit.
Avey Tare and Panda Bear are undergoing what real psychologists call regression-- that is, a return to a more developmentally immature level of mental functioning. The Animal collective has always evinced a juvenile sensibility, but a line needs to be drawn. There's a difference between playful, spirited getting-in-touch-with-your-inner-child juvenalia and the less wholesome pants-crapping juvenalia. And between Tare and Bear's last effort, the radically inspired Spirit They're Gone, Spirit They've Vanished, and this year's Danse Manatee, our patients have moved unmistakably from the former to the latter.
While Spirit freely colored outside the lines in its pursuit of beauty, Manatee is the musical equivalent of paste-eating. The addition of a third Animal, the Geologist, on keyboards seems to have eviscerated their candy-coated noise-pop rather than augmenting it. Gone are the stylized mod-pop mannerisms, the fevered rhythm guitar, the Daltrey-esque yowls, and the sweet-and-sour lyrics; in their place we find Speak N' Spell vocals, hyperactive clatter, and the single-minded pursuit of the most irritating sounds imaginable.
The bleepy electronic sylvania of the opening track, "A Manatee Dance," is momentarily intriguing, but soon passes into the explosive "Penguin Penguin" (the titles are a dead giveaway). "Penguin" submerges the largely tuneless vocals beneath a thick cacophony of symbol crash, bubbling noise and cricket chirping. "Another White Singer (Little White Glove)" possesses a kind of a sparse tribal funk, sustained by Panda's deep forest bongos, but Avey's vocals are shredded and torturous. "Essplode" is one of the highlights of Manatee, recalling the deftly catchy pop experimentalism of Spirit, as well as the organic drum-n-bass lines that dominated the former release. But "Essplode" is still shot through with the high-pitch squealing of which those Animal boys can't seem to get enough.
"Runnin' the Round Ball" is the album's strongest track and the only one that justifies the frequent comparison to Can and Amon Düül II. It's a thumping, motorized little romp, accented by breathing synths, baby whines, and frenetic glitchcraft. Unfortunately, it's one of the album's briefest tracks, and its incredibly percussive thrust is cut short before it really comes to any fruition. There's also a certain genius in the later track, "Throwin' the Round Ball" (round ball fixation = bedwetting, I'm told), a kind of cut-up pastoral of tinkling organs, spliced with odd, broken-sounding vocals, thunderous rumbling, and violent shreds of noise. The throb and chant of "Ahh, Good Country" is also oddly compelling, reminiscent of the rustic psychedelia of Flying Saucer Attack and the ecstatic primitivism of Hochenkeit. But aside from the few bright experiments, Danse Manatee is mostly intolerable make-believe. It's like having an imaginary friend you simply can't stand.
So, let's say the ideal of all progressive music is Freud's phallic phase: "Wow, this feels good when I touch it! I'll just keep doing it." Then, Danse Manatee might be located firmly in Freud's anal phase: "Mommy, look what I made!" But we must try to be reassuring. After all, Pitchfork has never been in the business of invalidating feelings. So, boys, we're not mad, just bitterly disappointed. And even the stinkiest dump provides an occasion for personal growth. Besides, Avey Tare, Panda Bear and the Geologist are always entitled to seek a second opinion. But before they do that, they should know that some kid I met at a party last week pretty much confirmed my whole diagnosis. And he was almost a psych minor.
