It's uncommon, but it happens: sometimes an album's opening track can predict the quality of the whole. Usually, it's when the song is either so beamingly wonderful or so gut-wrenchingly terrible that I've already decided whether it's going to do time in my permanent collection, or be sent off to the hands of some poor, unwitting sap rummaging through the broken jewel cases of a bargain bin.
Receiving many, many discs for free, as I do, as a reviewer who receives free discs-- yes, that's the kind with music, which cost nothing, to me, receiving them free of cost as I often do-- the latter option is often fairly appealing, seeing as how these free discs can be cashed in for a profit. But I try not to let this affect my overall judgment of the free albums I receive (by the truckload, of course, and daily). And even still, the opening tracks often drift by, in that neither overwhelmingly negative nor overwhelmingly positive way.
A gentle Casiotone drumbeat begins clunking out of the speakers, along with a simple, tinny, synthesized melody. A quiet, lovely bass guitar harmonizes with the melody, and an endearingly mousy female voice-- an American voice-- rhythmically sings the names of Japanese citizens Ami-chan and Mai-chan. Then, without warning, English lyrics: "When you walk down the street, you tell everyone you meet/ 'Yes, I can speak a little English, ma'am.'/ When you pull up your chair, with your serious stare/ You say, 'There are four people in my family.'" Then, some noisy, explosive, yet subdued samples along with some whispered chanting for a bit of a breakdown, and a reprise of the Casio melody and the main lyric. Then, it's over.
The description is basically useless, though. I'm hooked from hearing it, not reading about it. And I'm about to suggest you follow my lead, after this informational section here. "Ami-chan, Mai-chan" is the opening track from the Sisterhood of Convoluted Thinkers' second LP, entitled Ume Sour. The record is dedicated, by the married duo of Robert Christiansen (an ex-member of Grenadine and recorder of the first two Labradford LPs) and Jeannine Durfee, "in fond memory of our favorite nation and our favorite cocktail." It was recorded while the couple lived in Tsuyama, Okayama, Japan for 2\xBD years, teaching English for a living; this explains the opener's subject matter. The album is titled after the aforementioned cocktail, "which," as a handwritten note on the cover itself describes, "is a sour plum drink" with which Christiansen and Durfee fell in love during their residence in the country.
Ume Sour is brimming with charm. Christiansen and Durfee's adorable voices, combining as often as they go solo, sing tales of their everyday life in Japan. Accompanied by another simple synth beat, but this time with a plaintively gorgeous chord progression on guitar accompaniment, they sing "Song for Tony and Ian" for a couple of friends in America whom they miss. The touches upon their general feeling of nostalgia, and their musings on entering into an alien lifestyle. The pair then wryly follow up these sentiments with "Tottori Made," a purely American-style country hoedown with down-home guitar licks, galloping horse-hoof rhythms, and lyrics in Japanese.
On the rest of Ume Sour, the Sisterhood take their gentle, electro-indie style and create quite a few unforgettable melodies along the way, not to mention seamless shifts in tone, harmony and production packed into each track. The verses of "Lunchdate" groove minimally alongside a funky programmed beat and guitar riff, before breaking into a joyous chorus of "ba-da-da-bum's" and blissful baroque piano. "The Rainbow" starts with about 10 seconds of Christiansen singing to a folky guitar, and then literally fast-forwards through what seems like a whole song's worth of melody in another 20 seconds, giving way to a electronic groove, beautifully reverberating piano, and a poetic chorus summing up the husband and wife's union in a strange land: "Stone after stone in the river we've thrown/ We're building an island/ And I want you to be here with me/ And I want you to see what I see."
Ume Sour's finest moment comes two songs from the end of this short and sweet record. Christiansen opens "Armstrong Archer" with a powerful droning synth and spoken-word vocoder, almost appearing as an homage to Laurie Anderson's "O Superman." The track spans the next five minutes with piano and guitar, acoustic bass, paired vocals and slight electronic augmentations. This, the record's most deceptively simple, brilliantly crafted melody, shifts and twists into its various sections so effortlessly it almost makes one feel weightless. Near the end, as birds chirp and fingers delicately walk the ivories, Christiansen comes back with his vocoded voice of comfort: "When you're tired and no one's there/ Just remember the path... to happiness." The Sisterhood of Convoluted Thinkers have created a minimal, beautiful record that follows this path. And I somehow knew it would, right from those opening moments. I only wish I'd paid for it.
