Ever since the mid-90s departure of former lead sideshow David Baker, each successive Mercury Rev album has been a step further from the mayhem. With The Secret Migration, the band completely deserts the peculiarities that distinguished them from both peers and progeny in favor of a dull collection of pastoral fantasias that frequently wander dangerously close to adult contemporary.
OK, so nobody expects another Boces from Mercury Rev, but a reasonable derivation of Deserter's Songs or even All Is Dream would be more than what they've offered this time around. Abstaining from the bowed saw or flute solos and startling tempo changes that made previous efforts not only engaging but inestimably influential, Migration is a relatively dry collection of soft-psych fairytales that wouldn't sound out of place whispering through the speakers of a ponytailed yoga instructor. Particularly troubling is "Black Forest (Lorelei)", a prolonged dungeon-master's come-on with its checkout counter mysticism and drowsy instrumentation. Singer Jonathan Donahue asks, "If I were a white horse/ And offered you a ride/ Through a black forest." Well Jonny, I'd smack you on the ass and give you a good spurring to fire you up a bit. "Across Yer Ocean" is similarly lite in both expression and execution, with new age synths and fretless bass triggering a narcoleptic reaction first acquired thanks to repeated Sting marathons at Mom's house.
Elsewhere, the results are less laughable but just as uninspired. "In the Wilderness", a pounding inquisition, has been done better both by Mercury Rev and Doves. "In a Funny Way" turns Phil Spector's "Be My Baby" into a hippie husband's anniversary song. "The Climbing Rose" unfortunately will come out post-Arcade Fire and cannot match their emotional intensity, supplanting it with a more generic ode to spousal support.
The face-savers on Secret Migration are ironically the sparest arrangements. "My Love", "First-Time Mother's Joy (Flying)", and closer "Downed Poured the Heavens" isolate Donahue's delicate vocals by eliminating everything but a McCartney-esque plodding piano chord, creeping guitar vines, and a simple shuffle of the drums. This trio of songs indicates the band's potential divergence from their pals in the Flaming Lips who successfully segued from thrashy psych-punk to acid-washed epics on Soft Bulletin and Yoshimi, all under the watchful eye of Dave Fridmann. Though on Migration, Fridmann's trademark glisten is almost too clean, too precious, sterilizing songs dedicated to personified insects and hugging trees.
The disappointment of the album is as much due to an apparent complacency in the songwriting as it is to any sense of nostalgia for what Mercury Rev has done on previous landmarks. The breadth of their influence spans over much of the current indie and mainstream heartthrobs, and that status should be a liberation for a band that made its name on its aggressive experimentation. For the first time, they seem content to sit back instead of lean forward. If that's the case, if Mercury Rev intend to hole up in the Catskills and make front porch music, they'd be better off giving up the schmaltzy mushroom rock and focusing on the noises they can actually make on the front porch.
