Those of you who think music critics are just opinionated jerks who do no real work may wish to consider the following: Every so often, we're called upon to review something like this new Brokeback record. Reviewing a record like this is like reviewing a baked potato: You already know if you like baked potatoes, and you already know if you're in the mood for one right now, and there's not much to add in the way of qualitative commentary.
The nature of this particular baked potato is as follows: Brokeback is the side project of one Douglas McCombs, who plays bass for Eleventh Dream Day, and perhaps more notably, Tortoise. McCombs is responsible for those rich, languid, highly-melodic basslines that make up so much of Tortoise's personality, and Brokeback records tend to sound as if someone has taken a few of those basslines and stuck them alone next to a little pond so they can chill out and reflect. (In fact, both of the project's previous full-lengths have featured tracks on which McCombs borrows and rearranges his riffs from proper Tortoise albums.)
In Brokeback, McCombs collaborates with Chicago Underground Quartet bassist Noel Kupersmith. McCombs mostly plays six-string bass; Kupersmith mostly plays upright. The regular cast of locals drops by to contribute here and there; John McEntire on drums and organ, Chad Taylor on just drums, and the honorary locals from Stereolab-- Laetitia Sadier and the late Mary Hansen-- on largely wordless vocals. If you remember what horn Rob Mazurek plays, chances are you've already heard this record.
That's the schedule of particulars. Note that some of us have fondish memories of a time, in Chicago, when one could buy several albums a week and find at least one of those people playing something on it. This was a time when there were two dozen different bands filed under the TORTOISE/SEA & CAKE sections of local record stores (yes, they used to be together), when handwritten stickers pimped half of everything else as "w/members of... something or other," when every week brought some new permutation of the same guys doing mellow, contemplative records full of bossa rhythms, vibraphones, and squidgy synths, records that seemed to lay back and scratch their chins and say: "Indeed, quite so, my dear Pilkington, but what of Brecht's writings on the matter?"
Those days are now over and suspiciously large numbers of people deny having enjoyed them. I am not ashamed: I enjoyed them immensely. But what interests me now is that, with the exception of Gastr del Sol's Camoufleur, it's the flotsam and jetsam of the scene, not the flagship releases, that holds up the best: I have dug out the solo album by The Sea and Cake's Sam Prekop at least a dozen times over the past year, and Tortoise's Millions Now Living Will Never Die not once. What seems to be operating, at present, is a free pass for being, well... unassuming, and it's on these grounds that this Brokeback album sounds as good as it does.
Because this is, as mentioned, a good solid potato: Unsurprising, and not much of a main course, but a tasty and satisfying side dish nonetheless. There are the contemplative bass duets; there are the daintily progressing builds of subtle drum programming and subtler melodies; there is the old post-rock sense of listening to folk songs from some yet to be discovered cartoon planet where the landscape is awfully scenic-- and, thankfully, everyone involved seems to know exactly what that counts for these days, so they offer it up smiling.
If you already know this drill, you already know what you think of it. If you don't, this isn't the worst place in the world to sample it. It helps to have hardwood floors and natural sunlight and lots of plants and enjoy lying in bed pretending you live in Paris or Tokyo in the year 2100. It helps if you ride lots of super-modern trains or like things that are very clean and lie at right angles to one another. It helps if you like to hear the faint, pleasant echo of Chicago post-rock, bouncing nostalgically around an empty apartment after everyone's already decided to pretend they're not listening.
