If 2002 was a supposed resurrection of Velvet Underground-encouraged NYC garage rock, 2003 might be the year of the Beach Boys: check The Thrills, a troop of shaggy-haired Dubliners who, after camping out in San Diego for four months, have successfully adopted the breezy, sun-seeking saunter of California's much-mythologized coastal heroes. On the band's glossy debut, So Much for the City, vocalist Conor Deasy casually drops references to Big Sur and the massive, gleaming beaches of Santa Cruz, name-checking Hollywood kids, Las Vegas, and gently creeping tides while beautifully channeling the Boys' sweet coo-- and without the slightest hint of thick Irish brogue.
Lifting styles and sounds is a ballsy proposition, but it's not a particularly shocking one. While agitated classic rock fans might be tempted to drag issues of purity and authenticity into their early morning, PBR-tainted cock fights, co-opting and barefaced mugging have been indisputable parts of the rock equation ever since Presley started gyrating on TV. Even the biggest late-60s UK acts like the Stones and Led Zeppelin nicked their sweets from the Americana store, channeling coarse delta blues into something louder, rounder, and a little bit whiter. Therefore, The Thrills' perplexing geographic origins should ideally remain entirely irrelevant to the stuff of their record: a competent, satisfying pop spread, packed with impeccable vocal harmonies, happy keyboards, jangly guitar, and plenty of fades.
That The Thrills' hometown seems so stupidly anachronistic in the context of their music is-- surprise!-- a perfectly valid quibble: their decision to metaphorically (and, temporarily, physically) transplant themselves might be the only compelling creative choice they made. So Much for the City's sticky, pop-pleasant aesthetic has been straightforwardly pilfered from the last forty-something years of pop tradition (The Byrds to the Beach Boys to Ben Folds to Grandaddy) without nearly enough alterations to justify its brazen nods; even their bandname has been sported by a whole mess of artists already. I'm not saying every Irish act has to (or even should) sound like The Pogues, but The Thrills' external, sometime vaccuous pinching is clearly self-conscious, a carefully premeditated breach of expectation that causes more of a wince than a flash of pleasant surprise.
Still, there are some great summer-songs here: "Santa Cruz (You're Not That Far)" has a rolling rise-and-fall melody, sliding from a high, lazy piano-and-vocals intro into a full-band crest, punched up by spotless harmonies, bursts of harmonica and consistently bright percussion. Majestic and equally ocean-inspired, "Don't Steal Our Sun" features cut-time piano and drums, nicely timed shifts, and convincingly aggressive vocals, while "Big Sur" proves that The Thrills are capable of more than blind regurgitation: searing open with a zap of synth, the track's bouncy guitar, scratchy banjo and inescapable hooks are promising, and even the "baby, baby, please don't go" lyrics become kinda charming by halfway through.
Bands are always inadvertently shoveled into scenes and movements, often based on little other than their hometown addresses; it's that kind of arbitrary pigeonholing that allows for buzzwords and media-centric "hot spots," marketing tricks and random cash-ins. The idea of preemptively eschewing all that shit is understandably appealing-- but The Thrills could have thought a bit harder about finding a bright new sound to go with their suddenly sunny locale. This one's taken.
