Often when we say a record has "atmosphere," we mean it as a put-down. From Sgt. Pepper's to the present, a record's sonic appeal-- the effects, the mood, the spaces between the notes-- is inextricable from how it hits us. But when an artist pushes atmosphere in place of songs, it's frequently thought of as a crutch. Most listeners don't trust a mood to grab their hearts the way they trust, say, a human voice; nobody counts on production to deliver the "money note."
When I try to explain TV on the Radio to people who aren't into them, the first thing on the checklist is singer Tunde Adebimpe, a stoic romantic who falters but never whimpers. He's got about the best set of pipes in indie rock, yet on Return to Cookie Mountain his greatest strength lies in how well he stands back and blends in-- with the throatier Kyp Malone, guest singers including David Bowie, and, especially, with the atmosphere evoked by producer and noisemaker David Sitek. As the two founding members, Adebimpe and Sitek fit together like Jagger and Richards. But where the two Rolling Stones projected snarling sex, these guys express... what?
In the original version of Return to Cookie Mountain that leaked this spring-- the one that kicked off at full throttle with "Wolf Like Me"-- they sounded like victory. With that cut up front, you knew this was the great leap forward for which their last two records paved the way-- and when I say three records, I'm counting their scattershot sketchbook OK Calculator, which caught the band at its most "Hey, what can I do with this four-track?" They always claim they'd rather keep messing around with new ideas than settle down and crank out the hits that are at their fingertips, which is one reason 2004's Desperate Youth, Bloodthirsty Babes felt more eclectic than excellent. (In retrospect, the other reason is that they were still using drum machines.) But this time, maybe they'd changed their minds.
But before Return to Cookie Mountain became their major label debut, its tracklist was reshuffled. Now it leads off with the fascinating "I Was a Lover", a sympathy card that carries the most emotional sample on the record-- a bellow like the sound of a sad elephant, which fits right in with the defeated verse. It takes skill to craft a tone that people can feel sorry for; maybe there is a money note locked in that pedal crouching under Sitek's shoe. But other times, the noise evokes an orchestra, or a rockslide. Abstract and electronic textures roll over acoustic sources-- bowed upright bass, sitars, flutes, backward wind chimes-- to reach a perfect consistency, all the way through to the closer, "Wash the Day Away", where white noise rises and swallows them all. But not a moment too soon: not only is the mix stellar (if a little too biased away from the vocals), but once you get used to the new setlist, the pacing is perfect as well.
The band cycles up like a centrifuge. Vocals spin on "Dirty Whirl" like wooden figurines on a Swiss cuckoo clock, while a shimmering piano figure chimes across "Province". Like their first albums, the songs build on loops, grooves, and drones. They feel familiar, but they've never sounded this good-- or this thick. Even the voices cascade on top of each other, which obscures much of the lyrics. Nothing can cut through except the sharp and vigorous rhythm section. Check out the way the air catches in Adebimpe's throat on "A Method", then shakes loose when Jaleel Bunton bursts in like a drum corps waiting in the parking lot for the parade to start.
But what's their message? They're not here to rock-- they use too many loops, too much repetition, and too little chaos. They can do the community-drum-circle thing, but they're too slick to try it more than once ("Let the Devil In"). And even Adebimpe's voice has never sunk this far into the music; we don't even get an a capella feature this time, because this isn't an album about standing out. He's still a failed romantic, a social conscience, a charmer, and a distant voyeur; but with every album he becomes less of a "persona" and more of a regular person.
Maybe that's why this album has such an incredible pull: It doesn't make an atmosphere so much as a space to spend time in, and Adebimpe doesn't become a narrator so much as a witness. We sidle up into his head and watch through his eyes the tyrants, the druggies, the cocky lovers, the losers, and those beautiful fools who still surrender to lines like "Love is the province of the brave." And TV on the Radio are standing in the center, watching it all go by again, and again, and again.
