Let's wax reverse chronological: Pink Mountaintops' self-titled debut was issued last year, but the album has been drawing increasingly more attention since the January release of the self-titled debut from the band's evil vinyl-schooled twin, Black Mountain. Besides sharing personnel, the albums have a lot in common. With Vancouver polymath Stephen McBean at the helm, both are notable not merely for their rootsy rock influences, but the specificity of their stylistic appropriations. In a field where bands often consolidate entire decades to achieve a generic "retro" sound, McBean's geological formations hew away at something smaller and more ornately detailed.
Clearly, this is the way to go. Why settle for a mass-produced replica when you can have the hand-stitched real thing? Of course, no CD comes caked in John Bonham's dried sweat, but then, bands don't stand a chance of becoming deities themselves unless they hone in, internalize their forebears' achievements and conceive something new(ish) from the recycled matter. When it's done well, retro isn't biting; it's a novel and economical use of widely available ingredients.
Perhaps Pink Mountaintops haven't been as warmly received as their more ominous-sounding counterparts because their influences are more abstract and toyed-with. On "Modern Music", Black Mountain came right out said it-- they "can't stand all your modern music"-- and proceeded to ride Ozzy's headless bat all up in our grill. Here, McBean and his associates are more reserved. "Bad Boogie Ballin'" surpasses the composite weirdness of Black Mountain in its first four bars alone: A grimly metallic beat teams with a gas-huffing accordion to provide a backdrop for McBean's swarthy blues-trimmed vocal. The song seethes with tension, awaiting the melody that never shows up.
"Rock 'n' Roll Fantasy" is creepy and hollow. Soft solo guitar and meditative female back-up hums nuzzle up to the Doors as McBean delivers a harrowing vocal, revealing his most sexually-frustrated dream-wishes: "I came all over myself/ Wish I came all over your blouse." "I [fuck] Mountains", despite its titular filthiness, is actually the album's smoothest cut, letting nothing disrupt the flow of its hand drums and wafting-smoke guitars.
In general, Pink Mountaintops' music is more provocative when it isn't noisy. Among the louder numbers, only the chipper, almost Kinks-y "Sweet '69", which finds McBean's head buried deep in the feathered glory of his Summer of Love fantasies, truly succeeds. Elsewhere, "Tourist In Your Town" and "Atmosphere" take the Velvet Underground's band-of-gypsies plod into the sunset a little too far, failing to achieve the aimed-for catharsis of "Heroin". It's a flawed ending to a promising debut, but I wouldn't call it a letdown: Pink Mountaintops still aren't your dad's rock anachronism, because chances are they know the terrain better than the old man himself.
