"You want to know me? Well, what's to know?" asks Jack Tatum on the title track of Wild Nothing's Nocturne. The album's subtly addictive nature is such that only after a dozen listens did this anti-revelation strike me as its most revealing lyric. Tatum really does view himself as a facilitator. He drove that point home during our interview last month, debunking any attempts made in the past two years to classify him as a "personality." This seems self-defeating for a guy who works in a style of lovelorn, Anglophilic indie rock that never goes in style because it never really goes out of style, and tends to favor extreme recluses or extroverts for its breakout artists. Fortunately, Nocturne distinguishes itself from the perrennial crowd of dream-pop nostalgists for the same reason Wild Nothing's 2010 debut Gemini did: Tatum is simply one of the best songwriters in this field, and Nocturne's significant upgrade in fidelity makes that point more clearly than ever.
Whether it's better than Gemini or its EP follow-up, Golden Haze, only matters in the event you have room for just one Wild Nothing album in your life, and you probably shouldn't limit yourself. It's hard to imagine anyone who dug Gemini jumping ship here-- Nocturne is a richer, comparatively luxurious listening experience, but it doesn't sound flashy or ostentatious. Even while recording with one of Brooklyn's classiest sonic interior decorators in Nicolas Vernhes, Tatum granted himself only basic amenities-- live strings, a human drummer, better microphones.
Nocturne is painted with the same colors as Gemini, but the resolution is much higher. When the songs on Gemini wanted to convey vitality or physicality, they were charmingly ramshackle, stuffed with busy drum machines and insistently strummed guitar. If Nocturne wants for anything, it's the sense of immediacy that marked highlights such as "Chinatown" and "Summer Holiday". This record is more about craftsmanship. Lead singles "Shadow" and "Paradise" feel newly urgent in a holistic way, going places Tatum couldn't access in his Blacksburg dorm room two years ago. "Shadow" allows itself brief asides between verses to let those lustrous strings moan and swoon, "Paradise" interrupts its glistening downer-disco for an indulgent ambient build-up. The full-bodied sound means the softer side of Nocturne gets fleshier too. Gemini relied on reverb to convey texture and depth, and while there's still plenty on "Through the Grass", the rhythmic complexity of the song's delicate, interwoven arrangement plays a bigger role in making it one of the loveliest thing to be done with guitars this year.
Entire labels and local scenes are dedicated to preserving the era Nocturne evokes-- lacquering the malaised vocals, getting the right reverb plates, and hoping that aesthetic identification is more important than writing melodies that stick. Tatum, however, is a songwriter first who just happens to work in this medium. His vocals are put to the forefront to give the listener a clearly marked place to return, and his melodies are smoothly curved, like a small divot at which the rest of the arrangements can dig deeper. The hopscotch verse melody of "Shadow" works in tandem with an insistent, four-note motif doubled on lead guitar and violin. On "Counting Days", a simonized harmony serves as the chorus, but the little guitar countermelody that darts around it is the hook. Tatum understands the semantics of this stuff.
Which makes it strange that his ambitions as a melodic tunesmith aren't matched by his lyrics. Successfully writing like Robert Smith can be just as tricky as doing a decent Morrissey, which becomes clear every time Nocturne crosses an invisible line where a tiny bit of editing would pay off: "Paradise" contains the sensible-sounding, yet bafflingly mixed metaphor "velvet tongue so sweet", while "Only Heather" rhymes first and asks questions later: "I couldn't explain it/ I won't even try/ She is so lovely she makes me feel high."
Or maybe that's the only kind of lyric that really matters on Nocturne. If there's a Heather in your life, that song might be the centerpiece of your next mix. Or you might just listen to it hoping you'll meet a Heather, in which case, Wild Nothing is invested in the concept of wish fulfillment. This is called *dream-*pop for a reason, and there's no logic for what drives adults to lie out on the grass staring at the sun for hours or write songs about girls with fantastical names like "Rheya". Nocturne gives a voice to those feelings, and damn if it isn't lovely to listen to.
