If the Postmarks' delightful, weather-obsessed, self-titled 2007 debut didn't quite catch fire, blame the times. As bands of musicologist types fronted by fetching lady singers go, the Miami trio doesn't quite have the cosmopolitan chic of seductive NYC labelmates Ivy nor London's dance culture-conscious Saint Etienne. Yet they're not nearly as homespun as any number of pleated-skirt, jangly indie pop acts that live or die by the tambourine, either. Up the shamble factor, and they could well be regulars at Indietracks and the NYC, Athens, and New England Popfests, not selling many records but cultivating a cultishly devout international fanbase happily adorned in "Tim Postmarks" one-inch buttons. Put on a little more polish, and they might find themselves music-supervisor darlings, routinely opening sold out concert hall tours for, say, Pink Martini. Instead? They're in some kind of listener-demographic limbo, a Venn-diagram sliver between "professional" and "adorable"-- and in today's caste culture, that can spell utter obscurity.
The problem isn't lost on the Postmarks, who, rather than dial it down DIY-ward, have ramped it up to the rafters with their second full-length collection of originals, Memoirs at the End of the World. In case the title and cover art didn't clue you in, this is the Postmarks hopped up on some Mancini/Morricone/John Barry axis of cinephilia (something they touched on on last year's cover outing By the Numbers) and embracing all the bold horns, cascading strings, and percussive panache that come with it. Lavish and evocative are the keywords here; there's even a harpsichord effect on "Go Jetsetter", a jazz trumpet outro on "Theme From 'Memoirs'", and some sitar business on the sumptuously arranged "All You Ever Wanted". Several tracks also showcase a hitherto unheard grit: "Don't Know Till You Try", with its electronic chirps and dramatic brass, starts out sounding like a lite version of Broadcast's "Pendulum", while "For Better...Or Worse?" has all the tension of a spy thriller chase sequence, complete with a timpani-accented finale. Some more discerning listeners might rightly accuse the band of studio arsenal overkill, but for the most part Memoirs congeals into a thing of pristine orchestrated pop beauty. There isn't a misstep on here, even if you probably won't hear an out-and-out single either.
With the cinematic leanings, it's tempting to position the Postmarks of Memoirs alongside Portishead, and, especially, the later Hooverphonic records, but vocalist Tim Yehezkely is in a decidedly different league. Rather than play the vamp here, Yehezkely sounds like the comely girl staring wistfully out the window on the cover of the first Postmarks disc. This is not a bad thing, and in fact can make for a compelling dialectic, akin to movie star theory's great paradox that stars seem simultaneously "just like us" and of another world altogether. Yehezkely, with her limited range and slightly detached delivery, effectively bridges that gap between the music's indulgent/escapist tendencies and our desire to connect with it despite that distance. With her the Postmarks very well may have found a way to speak to both of the indie pop worlds they once seemed so precariously caught between: an unlikely marriage of craft and unpracticed charm, and a music made for dreamers and by dreamers. Can't wait for the sequel.
