Guided by Voices: an American rock band who became the standard bearer for lo-fi in the early 90s with Robert Pollard's home recordings. Pollard created a Picasso-like sense of unfinished masterpieces through what seemed to be drunken toss-offs. The clear affection GBV held for the Beatles, coupled with a melodic sense all their own, created a sound with all the deconstructive energy of punk, yet the melodicism of 60s pop.
Flaming Lips: Eccentric neo-psychedelic guitar band, with a singer who sounds like Neil Young gargling glue. Their sound evolved into bombastic prog-rock of epic proportions on their heralded 1999 album The Soft Bulletin.
I know that, unlike the obsessive staff of Pitchfork, you, the reader, might not have heard these rather seminal indie bands. But I understand. There's a hell of a lot of music out there being called "essential." There are a slew of great books you need to read as well. Sadly, it's costly and time consuming, and you suspect they might not be as enjoyable as the experts make them out to be. These are valid concerns. That's one reason why I've bored the experts with my descriptions of these two bands, which, when combined and diluted of some twee, approach the sound of Centro Matic.
The other reason is that I don't have much else to say about this Texas band. They sound like Lips singer Wayne Coyne fronting a tighter version of GBV. There's nothing much else that grabs me. But I'll go on. Watch:
The songs on Distance and Clime, Centro-Matic's sixth full-length album, seem to be quality when I hear them, but I can never sing them back. The rhythm section is wonderfully invisible, propelling the songs like the Fantastic Four's Susan Storm. Will Johnson's guitar buzzes like a thousand bees, but as singer, he often lingers in misshapen triplets over his three syllable words, as if he's a little too in love with the smartness of his cryptic verses. It's a little hard to understand what the words "in his pantlegs are hidden the blueprints to the stripmalls and the bloodbanks" (from "Janitorial on Channel Fail") might mean, but Johnson caresses them like an ancient incantation.
At least he doesn't sneer them all tongue-in-cheek, or try to be British like Robert Pollard. I can't stress how important it is that this band isn't twee, a worthy accomplishment given their influences. Instead of mimicking pre-schoolin' little boys, Johnson's opts for grittier vocals; instead of sing-songy, joyous melodies, they infuse the sound with a ballsy rock roar. After a while, you start to sense some Archers of Loaf pervading the mix.
Archers of Loaf: 90s Chapel Hill band distinguished by angular inventive guitar sounds and a mournful, gravel-voiced singer, Eric Bachmann. Bachmann is now reported to be singing ballads about booze-ridden losers with his new project, Crooked Fingers. He's like Neil Diamond, but hip.
I don't want to disrespect this band too much. Perhaps the songs will finally catch up to me on a later listen. Of course, that would be much later, since, after ten times through, I'm at a loss. Still, if you like the combination described above, don't just rush out and buy it. Look at that cover art first.
