Easy math even I can do: two gigantic heads are better than one, three certainly better than two, and so on and so forth. But when you're talking about records by supergroups, that logic doesn't always hold. Projects run the risk of being trampled by big feet and bigger egos. Avoiding these pitfalls is Swan Lake, that three-headed dragon comprised of left-field Canadian indie rockers Dan Bejar (of Destroyer and the New Pornographers), Spencer Krug (Wolf Parade, Frog Eyes, and Sunset Rubdown) and Carey Mercer (Frog Eyes, Blackout Beach). As vocalists, they range from downcast warble to abrasive yelp; as writers, they're known for cryptic, densely allusive songs that twist and slither into unexpected places. The phrase "acquired taste" comes to mind. But their 2006 debut Beast Moans was muscular and melodic and dizzying in all the right places; when the three crashed into each other on tape it made for a satisfying "Kablaam!" that reflected the weight of their pedigree and differing gifts.
But then again, for better or worse, that first record only hinted at the fireworks a less manic or dense collaboration might yield. Enemy Mine finds the group in such a wide-open brainspace-- breathing easy and totally in step. Containing just nine songs, each songwriter enjoys three distinct showcases. And while Bejar's tics tended to dominate on Beast Moans, this time it feels more inclusive-- you can hear them coaxing the best out of one another, fortifying the spaces that separate them. Opener "Spanish Gold, 2044" arrives on a platter of serrated guitar and moans, all of which can be traced to Mercer. And as strong a first step as it is, the track doesn't take off until Krug and Bejar join in with wails and instrumentation of their own. Then there's "Paper Lace", a Krug-fronted pop embrace with a feathery hook that Mercer and Bejar amplify but never overwhelm. And Bejar? He finishes up the opening blast with "Heartswarm", a ballad that stands tall on album full of them. It's not the nutty poetry or "Duke of Earl"-like chord changes that gives the song its shine, but rather the warmth of the textures they've bundled it up in. As relatively bare bones as some of these arrangements are, the songs are as kinetic as one might hope for from such dynamic songwriters. They just wouldnt sound as rich had they been fleshed out by any other set of players.
Still, the album's middle stretch sags quite a bit in comparison. Bejar's self-references, Krug disappears into the tangles of his own keyboard work, and Mercer, despite emerging here as a not-so-secret weapon, collapses from the weight of his inhalations and spasms. But even this lull is a useful reminder. Because as triumphant as the closing seconds of "Spider" and "Warlock Psychologist" are (and they really are), it's important to remember that Swan Lake's appeal can be found in the way their creative personalities merge. More unites these dudes than just a tireless work ethic, Bowie fetish, and hair-raising vocal delivery. All have made names for themselves by crafting fractured pop music, for framing the off-center beautifully. It's not only remarkable that they found each other, but that they're able to make so much room for one another as well.
