Offcell isn't inherently shocking, since-- let's be honest-- Pinback only have so many moves, but it's another supremely gorgeous record from a band that exists outside contemporary musical trends, yet makes absolute sense within them. Quite simply, Pinback are an original pop band, and these days, you can almost count their peers on two hands.
I saw Rob Crow and Armistead Burwell Smith IV a few months ago, at a bar staffed by muscle-bound, black-clad bouncers and tall, blonde, half-shirted waitresses carrying illuminated trays. It was the first time I'd seen the band in person, and this bizarre, conservative setting seemed all wrong; in my imagination, theirs was background music for firefly-infested fields and laid-back loft parties. What's worse, the club was packed, and it had a smoke machine, which pumped furiously and pointlessly before Pinback even took the stage. By the time they'd gathered their army of DAT machines, it was way too late for my wide-eyed excitement. They sounded pretty-- as expected-- but after four or five songs I left, dejected.
What a fucking letdown after I'd waited four years to see them! Still, leaving early didn't bother me: I was only interested in seeing how well they'd pull their quiet magic off in front of staring eyes and the tired commentary of drunken goons. After a few songs, I'd seen all I needed, which is one of the beautiful things about Pinback: their work is a single volume of slight variation. You could cut and paste their output together as one big landscape of clouds, mist and plaintive sounds. And some complain, but I like the unwavering steadiness of their vision.
Pinback have added layers as time's goes on, but otherwise, the narrative arc is entirely predictable, and all the better for it. This isn't some kind of underhanded compliment; you don't listen to or watch Pinback to be surprised, you welcome their aesthetic, because it lends the same nostalgic recognition as the smell of a freshly mown lawn.
The main difference on Offcell is that the guitar and bass tracks sound more live and full, more "rock" for lack of a better word. I've always enjoyed the interiority of the duo's work, and would hate to see take on the boring mid-ranges of most indie twaddle, but they did record this EP in Smith IV's new studio, so this "low-key technique"-- not so anal and arcane-- is probably just a byproduct of their surroundings (and, yes, as with their other releases, we get moody images of their gear).
Offcell starts with the three-part "Microtonic Wave", which leads with a damp, sandy guitar, offset by piano and chimes. After a quick shift into the patented baritone/falsetto harmonizing, and bleak, often cryptic lyrics-- "Cauterize my scars in scum"-- brief stardust vocals murmur and sigh below the persistent but dainty chimes. They've thankfully dropped the tired, ill-advised nautical fetish of old, instead finding inspiration in digital waves and telephones.
"Victorious D" is improbably gorgeous, especially because it's such a bruised fruit. When I saw them perform it live, I wondered how they'd bury the bass line on record, and if Crow was supposed to be singing so absently off-key in the bridge. Seeing how they struggled through its ambitious melodies in concert, it's exciting to hear the resolution: Crow intones "Angels suffering/ Angels fall from light/ Angels sickening/ Angels suffer," giving way to Armistead's higher-pitched response, which accrues a perfection all the more triumphantly on-the-mark.
Offcell's midpoint is a lesser version of "Tripoli", from their 1998 debut. The band's never topped that one, that first song on their first record: its sunny instrumentation hid the "sad I'm gonna die" lyrics for weeks, and only over time, like a slow-release pill, did its intent emerge. "B" is Pinback as garage rock: distorted guitars blending into computer blips and drum machines, the rust and angular gears of their vintage gear praising an idiot god. I thought of the town "B", from William H. Gass' In The Heart of the Heart of the Country, a place of revulsion and poetic repose. As in "Tripoli", there's again a discrepancy between the cheery musicality and creepy lyrics, drones in the air and kids down spiral stairs: "Mommas tell your babies not to rest inside your will/ Kids in refrigerators won't scratch their way out, and never will."
"Grey Machine"-- an eleven-minute, string-based doo-wop romance-- streaks across the sky, considering space and time before retreating into the more immediate powers of memory. I don't want Pinback to break-up, but in a way, this unique, potent bag of sweets would be a nice finale to what began so gloriously with "Tripoli" in 1998. You'll have to excuse my romanticism-- and don't worry, there's a Touch and Go full-length due in 2004-- but this grand epic, after many minutes and layered sounds, delivers its own aching epitaph: "Pick me up/ Take me home/ Get me out of here/ Please."
