I probably couldn't get anyone here in Los Angeles to admit it, but the city lacks a flasgship upstart indie band and wants one in the worst way-- one both a little fresher than Spin cover stars Beck and Rilo Kiley and with more mainstream potential than the bands from the Smell. The onus would likely fall on the folkier, cuddlier Silver Lake/Los Feliz scene, but over the past three years it feels as if the area's bands have failed to rise to the occasion.
It's no surprise that many are betting the house on the Airborne Toxic Event-- their debut album is lyrically moody, musically sumptuous, and dramatic. Their name is even a transparent DeLillo reference, and every one of the 10 tracks sounds like it can be preceded with radio chatter. The Airborne Toxic Event have done their homework. But unless you're a certain French duo, homework rarely results in good pop music, and The Airborne Toxic Event is an album that's almost insulting in its unoriginality; while the sound most outsiders attribute to Los Angeles has been marginalized to Metal Skool and the average customer at the Sunset Boulevard Guitar Center, TATE embodies the Hollywood ideal of paying lip service to the innovations of mavericks while trying to figure out how to reduce it to formula.
Throughout, the Airborne Toxic Event show a surface-level familiarity with early 00s critics lists, but aren't able to convey what made those much-lauded recods emotionally resonant. Can't convert unthinkable tragedy into cathartic, absolutely alive music like Arcade Fire? Just steal the drum pattern from "Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels)"? Can't connect with the listener with the same fourth-wall busting intimacy as Bright Eyes? That's when you trot out the run-on sentences and get all tremulous when you mean it, man. And that's just the first song. Not privy to the Strokes' accidental poetry and concise songwriting? Get a distorted microphone. Want a hit as big as "Mr. Brightside", but take yourself too seriously to conjure a semblance of juicy melodrama? Grab a half-assed disco beat and boom, you're now ready to write the limpdicked cuckold behind "Does This Mean You're Moving On?"
And while it's understandable that a debut should owe such enormous debts, what really rankles is the unrelenting entitlement that assumes cred via sonic proximity-- it's the musical equivalent of showing up to a bar with a bad fake ID and throwing a hissy-fit when you get carded. While lead singer Mikel Jollett can alternately sound like Paul Banks, Win Butler, Conor Oberst, or Matt Berninger, what ties the LP together is quite possibly the most unlikeable lyric book of the year, rife with empty dramatic signifiers, AA/BB simplicity, and casual misogyny. If Social Distortion did Bruce Springsteen instead of callow Johnny Cash fan fic, you might get the lock-limbed anti-rock of "Gasoline", but my god-- "We were only 17/ We were holding back our screams/ Like we tore it from the pages of some lipstick magazine." Before you can comprehend just how clichéd and yet somehow meaningless that line is, by the next hook he's replaced "screams" with "dreams" and "lipstick" with "girlie," before he's "only 21 [and] not having any fun." Then something about "bullets from a gun."
If only that were the low point. It pains me to pan "Sometime Around Midnight" on concept alone because, man, we've all been there. Stop me if you think that you've heard this one before: There's a club if you'd like to go...except maybe when you go home and cry and want to die, and it reduces you to putting your thoughts on paper in rhyme form. The next morning, you thank god no one's seen it but you. The Airborne Toxic Event aren't so private, alas. As the ill-fated narrator sees his ladyfriend in a "white dress" "holding a tonic like a cross" while "a piano plays a melancholy soundtrack to her smile" (what bars do these guys go to?). He imagines holding her naked "like two perfect circles entwined." After five minutes pass, she leaves with "some man you don't know" and then your friends look at you "like you've seen a ghost." There's a possibility this is just a po-mo exercise, writing a song about writing a song about how some girl not wanting to fuck you is some sort of epic human calamity, but judging by the out-of-nowhere string section that opens the thing for the first minute, I doubt these guys are playing. It begins a stunning about-face that finds the band spending the rest of the record trying to be Jimmy Eat World.
In a way, The Airborne Toxic Event is something of a landmark record: This represents a tipping point where you almost wish Funeral or Turn on the Bright Lights or Is This It? never happened as long as it spared you from horrible imitations like this one, often sounding more inspired by market research than actual inspiration. Congrats, Pitchfork reader-- the Airborne Toxic Event thinks you're a demographic.
