Here's the conclusion from my review of the Pale Young Gentlemen's 2007 self-released debut: "while Pale Young Gentlemen is frontloaded and slightly naïve...there's more than enough reason to anticipate what they're capable of when they decide to get darker, older, and less gentle." I love it when bands make it easy for me: Though the concept of "growth" can border on illusory, the shady, gnarled Black Forest comes on less strong than Pale Young Gentlemen, but is ultimately a lot harder to shake than its charming, if slightly hammy predecessor.
Similar to fellow Wisconsinites Violet Femmes, PYG essentially render a normally bombastic framework in acoustic terms: For the former, it was punk; for the latter, it's orchestral pop. "We could talk for hours/ Or maybe not at all" doesn't read like much of a mission statement, but sunk within album centerpiece "Kettle Drum (I Left a Note)", it's indicative of a band learning to leave more to the imagination. Despite massive turnover amidst its ranks and less than a year removed from Pale Young Gentlemen, what distinguishes Black Forest is the patience of confident survivors, not just of their first tour, but the easy comparisons to more maudlin and forthright old world-influenced acts like Beirut.
And it's tough record to initially get a hold of with all of its novel textures-- like their self-titled, Black Forest begins with a stuttering acoustic riff suggesting hip-hop as much as folk, but "Coal/Ivory" morphs into something more expansive and majestic, replete with the keenest coal lyric this side of "Oxford Comma". Nearly every track is built off a new string instrument, from the stumbling, thumbed arpeggios that give "I Wasn't Worried" a subtle charm to the washed-out harp of "We Will Meet" to the pizzicato, agreeably bumbling chorus of "Wedding Guest". Throughout, Michael Reisenauer's maundering vocals holds the disparate arrangements together like putty, though his lyrics are just shy of scrutability for the most part, overcast invocations of women and wine.
The light touch might still be a turnoff to some, since they're occasionally boxed in by their commitment to a sort of pop music that more archaic than Arcade-ish. "The Crook of My Good Arm" is the most obvious "rock" moment, with a vigorous tempo and a cello riff simulating the bass-- a trick also used by A.C. Newman. More surprising is how the violin jabs of "Our History" recall "Sunday Bloody Sunday" and its martial stridency: Reisenauer's cry "I was like a child/ You can't touch me!" is more of a well-earned moment of release than a cheap joke. Which is not to call these guys prudes-- it's a testament to their mastery of subtle suggestion that a line like "Bodies twist and hips crash/ Kissing thighs in between" can blend in without triggering a gag reflex.
