Law enforcers and psychiatrists have begun to notice a new deviant sexual behavior on the rise. No, not priests diddling young parishoners-- they've known about that for ages. This unspeakable scourge is called techno-eroticism, a term loosely defined as an inappropriate romantic relations with mechanical objects. In a pornographic underworld too seedy and secret for even Nicolas Cage to penetrate, there are men and women who will stop at nothing to perform hideous and twisted acts against helpless appliances and electronic devices. Yes, I know.
Is John Vanderslice a part of this perverted culture? The evidence is inconclusive at this hour, but "Me and My 424," a song from his latest outing, Life and Death of an American Fourtracker, certainly has its implications. Not since Queen drummer Roger Taylor's ode to autophilia ("I'm in Love with My Car") has a more overt display of man-machine love been foisted on the general public. Heart aflutter over his Tascam Portastudio 424 four-track recorder, Vanderslice lustfully fetishizes the spare parts he hoards in case it breaks down, adding and subtracting tracks, and his boxes upon boxes of TDKs. Freak.
Yet despite Vanderslice's shameless display of techno-erotic infatuation, it can at least be said that he and his recording equipment make beautiful music together: "Me and My 424" is the most infectious song about (cough cough) 'alternative lifestyles' since "Lola." Though he's often mistaken for the New York Yankees' right fielder or the star of Dawson's Creek, Vanderslice is in fact known primarily as the man behind Tiny Telephone studios in San Francisco, where a number of your favorite bands have recorded. But he's no stranger to the other side of the soundproof studio glass, having done the cult band thing with MK Ultra in the nineties before going it solo in the aughts.
Thus far, Vanderslice's solo work has occasionally suffered from that common pitfall of producer/musicians-- the tendency to drift away from actual songs towards sound experiments and unnecessarily fancy arrangements. Not so with Fourtracker, which largely finds its creator emphasizing his ear for a snappy melody over his desire to advertise the studio. The adjustment allows Vanderslice to serve up his thickest, juiciest slabs of honey-baked pop yet, under the umbrella of a concept album lyrically expanding on the teenage melodrama and aquatic imagery of The Who's "Drowned."
Placing songwriting at the top of his priority list doesn't mean Vanderslice gives his compositions sparse environs-- he still throws a veritable encyclopedia of sounds at each and every track. This time around, the wide instrumentation accentuates, rather than distracts from, the central melody-- "The Apartment" builds from simple piano and acoustic guitar to big brassy peaks, while melancholy violin and cello temper the bouncy strut of "Fiend in a Cloud." Vanderslice excels at picking just the right sonic ingredients to evoke a particular mood, be it the Hawaiian steel guitar that lends "From Out Here" its hazy beach feel, or the terse clash of swooping strings and drumming that lends "Me and My 424" its tone of romantic desperation.
Of course, it never hurts to have some famous friends to spruce up the liner notes, and here Vanderslice drafts Death Cab's cabbie, Spoon's stickman, a Mate of State and a Mountain Goat to do the honors. However, most of the contributions are pretty subtle: Ben Gibbard implicates himself in the techno-erotic world by lending his vocal and guitar to "Me and My 424," Kori Gardner Hammel throws in harmony on "Nikki Oh Nikki." John Darnielle pens a couple (surprisingly unremarkable) lyrics. Only Spoon's skinsmeister Jim Eno leaves much of a divot, having a ball inside Vanderslice's crunchy drum sound on "Fiend in a Cloud" and "From Out Here."
In fact, Eno's and Gavin Foster's drumwork plays a considerable role in keeping Fourtracker afloat, as evidenced by the unsatisfying results when Vanderslice turns to less traditional sources of rhythm. The percussion loop on "Nikki Oh Nikki," comprised of coin-filled bags and cresting waves, can't shake its resemblance to Pink Floyd's "Money," cycling endlessly like a funeral dirge and sedating Gardner Hammel's characteristically spunky singing. And "Amitriptyline" lacks the energy to overcome its clunky pharmaceutical subject matter, limping along on a nondescript synthesizer preset.
But despite the soggy middle that those two songs constitute, the album stands strong alongside its quality button-down pop peers at Barsuk Records. Life and Death of an American Fourtracker finds John Vanderslice taking firm steps towards balancing both his producin' and his writin' personas. He's not quite there yet, but he's darn close. And he lives in California, where it's still legal to 'fuck around' with a four-track, if that's his bag. John, just keep it safe and use lots of head cleaner.
