At last, America's ADHD scourge has its definitive product. Wet from Birth, the fourth proper full-length from Omaha new-wavers-gone-goth-rockers The Faint, is a hyperkinetic and confused soundtrack for wanderlusted, deficient attention spans, suffering from enough overactive production flourishes and inexplicable instrumental touches to obliterate the band's addictive dance jams. So pick up your scattered crayons, kids, and sharpen their tips against the walls. The Faint share your unfocused consciousness and are ready to commiserate.
The Faint's last release, Danse Macabre, was a tenfold leap beyond its synth-pop predecessor, 1999's Blank Wave Arcade; the band's decision to target the techno-goth introvert in us all, rather than to further embrace the wider appeal of 1980s retro-futurism, made clear that they cared not one whit for their audience's expectations. And yet, even considering that album's novelties, few could likely have predicted the level of bewilderment that lies in store on Wet from Birth.
Almost all traces of the band's early new-waving are gone; rather, The Faint gorge themselves on synthesized strings and junkyard static, while limber dance-bass struggles in vain to retain any semblance of low-end against the harsh treble of their production's greasy, Plasticine coating. The experimentation feels forced from the outset: On opener "Desperate Guys", a mounting string section (the album's most prevalent and unnecessary addition) slams headfirst into caustic bass-waves before Todd Baechle's signature wire-sharpened vocals join the pulse. Simply busying up an otherwise very straightforward groove, these effects add little to the song, and in fact seem to serve no purpose other than to provide some transparent veneer of forced artiness. Here, for the first time, it feels as though The Faint have lost faith in their previous strengths.
"Southern Belles in London Sing", too, falls victim to mismatched instrumentation. Subtle horns creak from enveloping static before becoming lost in an overbearing string arrangement. Its rugged, Depeche Mode-esque bassline gives way to rapturous Siren singers in one of the album's great what-the-fuck moments, adding one more cacophonous element to a song already suffocating in density.
Though more tightly arranged, "Erection" and closer "Birth" make the unforgivable mistake of calling attention to Baechle's horrendous lyrics. The results are two bona fide contenders for worst song of the year, and could find themselves in a lonely race. Limited to a bug-zapping bass and mechanized handclaps, "Erection" never builds from its repetitive drone, instead buzzing shapelessly for nearly three minutes as a bawdy in-joke. Rough-riding on an anarchist's punch of muddy guitars and doomsday percussion, "Birth" opens with the observation, "In the beginning, there was semen," before dishing still more tired shock-value imagery and finally arriving at, "I should have noticed the beauty/ And not how it hurt/ Wet like a cherry/ In the blood-bath of birth." Yes, we get it. Unfortunately, Baechle's grin can't excuse his trite Reznorisms.
The real misfortune is that these hyperactive misfires hide Wet from Birth's central joys. When not indulging in childish grossout humor or overstuffing their tracks with studio gimmickry, The Faint still prove powerful songsmiths. The more stripped, simpler tracks here-- those scraped reasonably clean of tangential instrumentation and kitchen-sink decoys ("How Could I Forget", "Phone Call", "Paranoiattack")-- rank among their best work. Indeed, beneath their frenzied effects and miswired production sense, they still chronicle America's black-lit dancemare and exhume the cheap thrills of 80s synth-pop with the best in their field. Their mistake is in forcing too many ideas into every possible second, and that kind of overstimulation always ends the same way: Faint, say hello to the time-out corner.
