Who knew you didn't need "fun" to spell "funk"? It seems almost impossible, but Watchers have found a way, though I doubt they were looking for one. They want to be the life of the party, but like the kid you gave near-beer that acts hammered, they're trying way too hard. To the Rooftops, their debut full-length, can't contain its own ambition, combining angry post-punk funk with world-music dub and hints of Chicago's post-rock, post-hardcore, post-everything scene. Which is by now post-entertaining.
These disparate styles are braced together so rigidly that all fluidity is lost, resulting in stilted, workmanlike compositions that play it off casual, but sound like they were recorded at gunpoint. Part of the trouble is that, while they cycle through a huge swath of distinctly different genres, all the elements are tossed together in indistinct ways, at incongruous times. Not one of the myriad modes they draw inspiration from becomes a clear anchor for any of their songs, "Follow Me, Follower" excepted. Basically, they sound a lot like mid-period Talking Heads without the...is "edge" the word I'm looking for? Maybe it's "coke." Whether or not they're purposely recycling "Burning Down the House", regurgitation like this is rarely exciting.
Michael Guarrine sings with the ice-cold confidence of an evangelical David Byrne, going so far as to duplicate his signature staccato enunciation; the band firmly embraces the funk-punk-fused polyrhythms exemplified on 'Heads tracks like "Cities" and "Life During Wartime", but the pop sensibility to smooth out those rough angles is absent. Instead, Watchers dwell on post-punk anxiety, lending these tunes a forced, undeserving gravity.
Not all of To the Rooftops is marred by such a contradictory sense of over-seriousness. Though plodding, twitchy cuts like "Gold Standard" and "The Dirty Sponsor" feel like a chore so early in the record, stiffened by monotonous, dry beats and a stockroom of old, half-hearted funk riffs, things improve as the album draws to a close. The aforementioned "Follow Me, Follower" delivers some unique energy at last: chugging guitar and surprisingly slick bass give the tune a recognizable face, something Watchers can call their own amid a sea of characterless clichés. They go on to do themselves one better with "Taxiland", the record's obvious highlight; off-kilter rhythms and deliriously unbalanced guitar lines give the song a woozy, spiraling charm, and somehow still preserve its fundamental dancefloor appeal.
"When the Night Comes" is a decent-enough finale, relying on the band's few strengths, but it only begs the question, "Why couldn't the first half of To the Rooftops have been this engaging?" Terrible production doesn't help, as nothing comes even remotely close to breaking out of this cardboard-flat mix, but as problematic as these uniform levels are, it still comes back to the Watchers' overly sober, suspect sonic mixture.
Despite their obvious efforts to enthrall and entice with punk-funk riffs, this throw-down has all the spontaneity of an office birthday party. Guarrine howls "Cut loose!" as the oh-so-strained funk underpinnings of this music try to play along, but it feels like the off-hours rebellion of your coworkers. Like most parties, it takes a little time for things to heat up, and the band gradually settles into a smoother, more vibrant art-funk groove after the initial stiffness, but by the time they come around to their formless 9-5 lament "My Cube", the Watchers have loosened the restraints as far as they're gonna. The implicit sentiment is still "Your ten-minute break is over in five minutes," and everyone knows the door to the roof is locked.
