If emo and New York fashion rock are as ideologically opposed as red and blue states-- weepy strings vs. buzzsaw guitars, maudlin lyrics vs. cynical ones, introspective sensitivity vs. extroverted cool-- then A.R.E. Weapons' sophomore LP attempts to be a bridge between the two. The band haven't abandoned the nihilistic front on which they made their name: tinny bounce beats ripe for a Jeezy or Weezy ad-lib still fart away under sewer-rock guitars, although this time around they've added a human drummer for a more credible thump. And Brain McPeck's smarmy vocals are still peppered with aggressively superficial lyrics that seem like tacit rebukes to anyone who's ever felt anything-- the throbbing dirge "Doghouse" is an ode to unfounded self-satisfaction; the Suicide-lite creep-out "Push 'Em Back" revolves frivolously around that time-honored cheer; the 8-bit pulse of "Who Rules the Wasteland?" continues to conflate NY nightlife with a weird Mad Maxian vision of post-apocalyptic turf wars.
The music is better this time around-- the guitars cut harder and deeper, and occasional Rapturous harmonies glam up McPeck's unctuous sneer. But more interesting is how throughout the record, a kinder, gentler (or at least more conflicted about being privileged and shallow) A.R.E. Weapons asserts itself, and despite the hokey context of these glints of humanity, they scan as weirdly sincere. On a serious note, I won't speculate as to whether or not the death of their original guitar player made them take a long, hard look at their essentially cheap take on existence, except to throw it out there as a possibility. On an unserious one, maybe seeing his sister in The Brown Bunny shook something loose in Paul Sevigny's soul, something that rippled out through the band at large. Or maybe it's just another layer of irony, although there are no cues to indicate anything of the sort. I can't call it. Maybe someone just fell in love.
The record opens with "These Tears", where, over a nervous plink and crashing guitars, McPeck begins with his usual snottiness: "All my life you know I've been so cold/ I never shed a tear." It's surprising when the bluster suddenly turns to insecurity-- "Dear God what is wrong with me?/ Am I really this dead inside?"-- and even more so when the insecurity turns into bald-faced empathy. McPeck cries for "the days that [his] heart was black," for "the people [he] threw away," for "the crimes of history," for "people feeling all alone." Has he actually realized that being poor and disenfranchised isn't very funny? This isn't an isolated incident; time and again the mask of alienation slips to reveal a human being who believes that "everybody needs somebody" (on "F.K.F.") and that "We fuck up sometimes but in the end we know what to do/ We take each other hand in hand/ Walk off into the night" (on "Into the Night"). Just so we're clear, this is still extremely bombastic, ridiculous music, and if you're one of the many people who walked out halfway through Electric 6, you probably don't want to bother checking out Electric 7. But by comparison, A.R.E. Weapons is practically elegant, and if their newfound sensitivity is a put-on, it's at least a convincing one.
