David Vandervelde is a natural wanderer. Since releasing his mini-album debut in January 2007, the Michigan native and then Chicago resident moved to Brooklyn, then quickly relocated to Nashville, although he mostly stayed roadbound behind The Moonstation House Band. Musically, he's equally nomadic: That album stomped like T. Rex and glammed out like Bowie, but his new follow-up, while staying more or less contemporary with its inspirations, mellows out considerably to Fleetwood Mac or to Gerry Rafferty, England Dan & John Ford Coley, and other K-Tel fodder bands. Listening to Waiting for the Sunrise, it's difficult to determine whether those acts have consciously influenced him or have indirectly filtered into Vandervelde's brain like fluoride in the water (he was born at least 10 years after most of his heroes' heydays). Mostly that's besides the point. What matters more is how well Vandervelde fares in a genre that-- tongue-in-cheek yacht rock revival notwithstanding-- is not especially defensible at the moment. Or really at any moment, for that matter.
For Vandervelde, this type of soft rock plays as a style that allows and perhaps encourages experimentation, which is not necessarily unheard of (see: 10cc's "I'm Not in Love") but which allows him and his band to tinker in the studio. Opener "I Will Be Fine" floats by on a summer breeze that might seem a little too harvest gold/avocado green, but as it progresses, the songs seems to grow weirder: The echo on Vandervelde's vocal track becomes more pronounced (essentially reducing his words to syllables and his syllables to sounds), the reverb on the piano makes it emanate from the apartment upstairs, and Emmett Kelly's guitar dodges in and out of the song. As the song gently dissipates on the wind and fades away, it becomes something more than mere genre exercise.
Of course Vandervelde has rock-star dreams, so not everything is quite so stoner-mellow and summery. The band's marching pace and cascading guitars make "Hit the Road" sound nearly psychedelic, and the not-quite-reggae rhythm that propels stand-out "Someone Like You" is created by an acoustic guitar strumming on the and beat, which has been annexed by the rhythm section to create a loose groove. At times the big rock sound is so black-hole dense that melody cannot escape it, which robs "Knowledge of Evil" of its hook and makes those four minutes a drag. On the other hand, "Lyin' in Bed", which could have been a Moonstation outtake, begins with an unusually heavy riff before building into a fiery show-closing guitar meltdown that plays to the double meaning of the song title.
It seems wholly predictable that these songs would run too long. Most could be cut by a minute, some by two. "Need for Now", the rare exception, starts its long fade-out on the very first notes, but that only reinforces its setting-sun mood. "Someone Like You" really does overshoot. The triumphant ooh-wooh-woohs at the four-minute mark initially sound like a solid outro and a natural conclusion for the chorus melody. But that's just the bridge. The song has two more minutes, during which Vandervelde and the band can only repeat themselves to diminishing returns. Extravagant song lengths, like big-ass cars and expensive gas (hey, wait a sec), are touchstones of the 1970s rock that obsesses Vandervelde, but he shouldn't be quite so slavish in his recreations and reinterpretations. "Someone Like You" is the stand-out track on a fairly solid album, but how much better would they have sounded with a little judicious editing and a sharper focus
