Rings are a band with their own private logic. At least, they seem like one, which constitutes about half their appeal. You could call them an "outsider" band, but that's indulging a fetish term-- instead, think of them as "insider" music: Intimate to the point of obscurity, so keenly aware of their own self-fashioned world that they ignore everything around it. The three women in the group-- keyboardist Kate Rosko, guitarist Nina Mehta, and drummer Abby Portner (sister to Dave, aka Animal Collective's Avey Tare)-- follow in a tradition of spooky post-punk that eschewed rock for reggae, dub, and folk (the Raincoats' second album, Odyshape, is an obvious touchstone; some Slits songs qualify, too).
They affect naiveté because naifs exist unencumbered by their surroundings; they play like the music lies just outside of them, like it's warm and raw-- like it's the first time. Mehta's guitar lines spurt from her fingers with half-random haste and Portner pants behind like she's being dragged by her own drumkit. They all yell and it's shrill as heck.
The frustrating truth about Black Habit, however pretty and enchanting and strange, is that Rings' songs sound beyond their grasp. Not because they've created something with a life of its own, but because their implicit ambition-- to make secret-sounding, powerful, hypnotic music-- outweighs their verve. When Mehta flatly yelps "I want to be free!" over and over in "Scape Aside", the mantra coaxes the band to a frenzy and almost carries them over, but instead of goddesses baying moonward, they sound like irritated girl scouts banging on the ceiling from the top bunk. "Is He Handsome", the most bewitching track here, is interrupted by first-take giggles. Rings are always on the tail of a vibrant eco-force, it's just that sometimes it's a monster through uncertain woods, other times it's a kitty in a living room.
Black Habit has the makings of a great album, but it isn't one. It's irritating, alluring, brief, and sweetly aloof. The vocals shoot through the din like primary colors over charcoal. The crypto-sexy music clatters and tumbles, a perpetual ruffling of the feathers. There might be great moments, and there are at least half-great ones. Rings' pretense is to freedom, I guess, and it's a warranted one. They're free, and as much as I want to come with them-- an embarrassing amount-- Black Habit resonates like a preacher unconvinced by his or her own sermon; it keeps me at its threshold and stays inside itself.
