A few years ago, maybe: this Austin band called The Kiss-Offs put together a couple lines that made me want to buy the group as many drinks as they could handle-- and from the sound of them that would have been quite a few. "Give me one more chance," drawly guy-singer sang, and chirpy girl-singer finished his thought: "And you'll fuck up." This is the main thing I remember about their record-- that it contained one of the better uses of parenthesis I've come across in a guitar-pop song. "Give me one more chance (and you'll fuck up)," all matter-of-fact, like neither of them even felt like going through the motions.
There are a couple of Kiss-Offs in Black Lipstick, including drawly guy-singer Philip Niemeyer, and like you'd guess from the name, they're still kicking around the same pleather pants and beery make-out vibes as before. They can still nail down the parentheses, too. On "Serpentz", one of a few highlights here, some straggling backup vocals turn an oily compliment into a warning, because these guys are out to steal your girlfriend: "No lady so lovely should be left alone. (With me.)"
They're clever like that. But the girlfriend's probably safe: these folks might get into beer, or trucks, but you just know they're cute little indie kids. One of them is a lawyer; it's not hard to imagine the others being grad students.
Which works out perfectly for them, cause it's surprising how good they sound. They live in this down-to-basics neighborhood that's a certain type of indie rock band's Home Base, which is to say that they sound like a lot of bands who sound like The Velvet Underground: the drums tick and shamble, the guitars scrape and jangle, and the singers drawl off-key about being broke, getting fucked up, and breaking up with people. (Just when I'd forgotten why it used to be cool for indie bands to sound like they were doing everything half-assed!)
Add in these guys' penchant for cute glammy details and the low-rent Texan good-time vibe gets pretty infectious: the idea of Black Lipstick playing anywhere but basements, barbecues, and dive bars seems sad and wrong. So they fret about being 27 and still getting excited about thrift-store finds; they get around on the city bus; they dream about getting back at bill collectors and luring old friends away from corporate day-jobs. They almost-- almost-- manage to make me miss being broke, wearing dirty shorts, and forgetting what day it is.
It's about the voices more than the music, really. Niemeyer's got a lazy sing-speak that makes Lou Reed sound like the one with the affectations; he drawls so sly and husky that you can almost miss his one-liners. (What's remarkable is that he's still more expressive than the average yelper: at his best he beats even the knowing sing-song of Luna's Dean Wareham.) Guitar player Travis Higdon-- who lays sloppy hooks over Niemeyer's rhythm-- takes the lead for a few tracks, covering the other indie-vocal mainstay: he's the sweetly warbly one. Drummer Elizabeth Nottingham, meanwhile, is the secret, tossing out the occasional deadpan lazy backup or just talking back and forth with Niemeyer: "So, papi... you like it when I shake it?"
That's how they shamble through. Sometimes it's that lazy jangle, like on "Voodoo Economics". Sometimes Higdon breaks through for a snappy pop run, like on the perfect chorus of "Serpentz" or on "Corporate Happy Hour". Sometimes they sag down for the lazy head-nodders: "Dirges are Downers" and "Hot Sinners" seem like mumbling from under the covers, and it's at moments like these where the band seems most in danger of losing the plot. But they just as often hit it spot-on. "Ease Back" makes good on a few minutes of ultra-slack cruising when it, like, eases back, into some big guitar sweeps and Niemeyer's good-life fantasy: "We're spending cash at malls/ And making booty calls." Not to mention the nine-minute "Texas Women", which stops midway through for a long guitar break that explains how these guys bought some Sonic Youth records and liked a lot of the pretty parts.
The music is... well, don't expect to hear anything you haven't heard before, and don't expect to hear anything you've heard before done particularly better than the last time. Black Lipstick work mainly because of charm. This is the thing about the slacker-band Home Base: there are two reasons you might be spending time there. The best Home Base bands sound like they're rediscovering it-- jogging happily back to the plate after hitting a home run, giving the thumbs-up to a crowd that's getting what it knows it wants. The worst Home Base bands sound like they're just stuck there, striking out.
So this completely ruins the analogy, but Black Lipstick have sort of hit a triple: like their dreamier labelmates Palaxy Tracks, they've latched onto all of the loveable, slopped-up band-in-a-room realism of college bands around the turn of the 90s. That's not always enough, though, and Converted Thieves really does just sound like a half-assed record unless you feel like letting the details grow on you. And yeah, let's be clear: there's no excuse for another rock band that sounds this much like The Velvet Underground. But then again, it's supposedly summer, and if I could have any band over to play a house party...
