You might have noticed that there are approximately fifteen million indie bands out there now, many of which sound passably accomplished, though not often terribly unique or with much perspective to offer. Part of that may be because decent-sounding home recording has never been cheaper, easier, or more attainable. When records evocative of the 1980s/90s lo-fi underground pop up in this age of Ableton and GarageBand, they can seem like an affectation-- if not a political act.
But then there's Home Blitz, a band that couldn't be more aptly named or more unconcerned with fitting in. This album, which collects tracks culled from split tapes and 7"s, has an amateurish aesthetic for sure, but Home Blitz don't seem totally defined by it. If they're about anything, it's reclaiming or maybe holding on to the remains of innocence. Their loose, bare-bones songs could be garage-rock by default, but they almost always come with a tender, somewhat prepubescent undercurrent-- not the only indie artist recently to pick up Jonathan Richman's ball and run with it, but they may come closest to nailing his guileless charm (the secret being not to try so goddamn hard). In their best moments, Home Blitz fluently mix familiar garage and avant-rock idioms with poignant, evocative details of youth, all in a sweet and surprising conversational tone.
They've also got some great songs, and there's more to them than how they're recorded. "Apocalyptic Grades" is fuzzed-out and sloppy, barely on the beat, singer Daniel DiMaggio's voice squeaking and missing notes everywhere; it could be a slightly more proficient version of the kid band Eyeball Skeleton. But "Hey!" especially is classic in any cast, an exuberant garage-rock ode to electric guitar (which "can express many emotions"), and the straining, neck-climbing guitar lines that lead into the chorus of "My Town" are too canny to be accidental. The compilation has its ups and downs: the more experimental, dour meanderings of "Bored" and "Yard" have a little less charm than, say, "Marquand Park", which takes two minutes of meandering drone to warm up into an insistent anthem warning the listener about a vampire house down the block.
But the roughshod and amateurish recording can't be ignored exactly, either. These songs consistently call attention to their seams, always thwarting their momentum and reminding the listener of what they're in for. "Hey!", a bubblegum garage tune that halts everything for a chewing gum break, is only the most obvious example. The overdriven bridge of "Stupid Street", a real black-and-white to Technicolor moment, highlights the aimlessness of the rest of the track, while "Right Cut Even" casts aside all its momentum and built-up competency for scattered, moaned interludes. There's a moment in "Benches" where the guitar solo slips from discordant wailing into a rudimentary but effective blues scale, just like a halfway competent player, and that's the part that sounds like a mistake.
But what sells the flailing and tape-cutting are plenty of weird concrete details of adolescence, like the parking lot behind the AMC, which is the best place for little league (in "Little League"). Even more prevalent are awkward, romantic ideas of being a rock star (it's all about "taking chances and making friends", according to "GT Performers"). From the band shivering in the cold of "Stupid Street" to the wishing-to-be-road-weary ballad of "Benches", these are songs about rock, hoping to rock, and how hard it is to rock. Imagine the first Weezer record, without Ric Ocasek... or a recording studio... or a whole band. Lo-fi might seem like an antiquated notion now, but as with any good story, the songs on this record couldn't take place in any other setting.
