Marmoset's previous full-length, 2001's 13-song, 33-minute exercise in Anglophilic indie Record in Red, quietly ranks among the best albums released by Secretly Canadian. The Indianapolis natives, one of the label's first discoveries in 1997, have been fairly compared to fellow corn-belters Guided by Voices, yet the core songwriting duo of Jorma Whittaker and Dave Jablonski err more toward Syd Barrett than the Who. The subsequent release of just one EP, 2002's Mishawaka, has resulted in Marmoset's public persona-- or more appropriately, its complete lack thereof-- adopting the withdrawn disposition of its music.
Florist Fired, 16 songs from sessions dating back to late 2003, is the result of that quiet patience. The record locates a middle ground between Red and its predecessor, the more experimental Today It's You, with the duo still traversing the spectrum of sub-three minute lo-fi indie rock. There aren't quite the bonafide indie-rock earworms here like "Forever We Ignite" or "Lost Days for Ways", but there is plenty that could still only come from this particular band, a claim few groups of their ilk can make. Marmoset still sounds like a lot of other bands (Beat Happening, Swell Maps, Sebadoh, Velvet Underground are usually cited) but their twisted amalgam of psychedelia, sexuality, and off-kilter melodicism remains undeniably unique.
As indicated in the refrain of Florist's furiously fuzzed title track, "Please go away/ There's nothing I can say," the band's most recognizable attribute here is Whittaker and Jablonski's shared interest in the frequent weirdness of human contact. With the type of curious deadpan shared by Donovan and Lou Reed, Whittaker's voice can suggest ambivalence, but his intentions are often anything but. For two Florist songs the mordant, avant-sinister persona of Red's "Art-Maker" (chorus: "Art maker/ Strangulator") reappears, stressing the sexual and ghoulish attributes of his whisper. The creepy come-on "Eat Me Out" is asking exactly what you think it is, in a baleful dialect akin to "Gouge Away". Later, "Butterknife" veers into gothic/camp territory of a different culinary stripe, querying "I want you to cut my food/ To make it safe to chew".
Jablonski's contributions here veer toward detail-driven meditations on antisociality as well, apparently inspired by a soured partnership. The atonal, heavily-echoed "I Saw Your Shadow" is a chilly stream-of-consciousness that could have come from Jandek-- after knocking, he sees a shadow appear under the door, then disappear. Instead of knocking again, he chooses the path of intense rumination. The dour, elegant "Dropping Dimes" is wearily attuned to the exhaustion of a expiring romance, affirmed by the sapped realization that "there's no future in making a fuss about coffee in the morning".
Florist's best moments come when the duo lighten up a bit; for Jablonski, it's the hopeful acoustic cadence of "Missing Man" ("you could be free, or become a missing person, a missing man"). Whittaker's playful side is the real recommendation, though-- it's only a short slip from his earlier grim propositions into dotty Skip Spence territory. "Apples", co-written with Casey Tennis of fellow Indianapolites Margot & the Nuclear So & So's, once more indulges Whittaker's inner epicure, and closer "Personality Candyspots" seems to be a tenderly transmitted skin affliction. The langorous "Pass it Along" is Florist's highlight, however: circulating confusion seldom sounds as enticing as when Whittaker rhymes that recommendation with the line "everybody's wrong when they're singing this song." It's more than a little devious, yet strangely soothing at the same time; resistance isn't quite futile, but you know you want to give in for a few.
