Born Ruffians singer/guitarist Luke LaLonde bursts in on the opening "This Sentence Will Ruin/Save Your Life" like he ran all the way to the studio. He doesn't have enough wind to finish his verses, and when he defaults to "Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey! Hey!" on the choruses you wonder if maybe he just forgot the words, like he has a Ritalin-addled brain that's moving a lot faster than his mouth and he keeps losing his place. The way Isaac Brock listened to Black Francis, this guy listened to Isaac Brock; he's got the kind of rhythmic push/pull sloppy/punctual phrasing that first endeared Brock to the indie hordes way back when, even if he's not always sure what to do with it.
Born Ruffians are three Toronto teenagers with the precise sound we imagine when we think of indie rock in this post-Arcade Fire, post-CYHSY world. Of course, originality doesn't matter much as long as the band gets the details right, as BR do. They've got some things going for them: a few of these songs are tremendously catchy; they're funny and don't appear to take themselves seriously; LaLonde is the kind of loveable nerd you want to root for, even if he sounds like he's never heard a note sung by a guy with a decent haircut; the rhythm section wants to swing, even if they don't always manage; and their debut is only 16 minutes long. That last bit is key. You first meet someone at a party, you don't need to hear their life story; 16 minutes is the perfect length for a firm handshake from Born Ruffians.
That's enough time to know what they're about. They twitch like a little ball of nervous energy on "Merry Little Fancy Things", LaLonde trembling as he spits out, "It's just the two of us here/ We can talk about it," as if talking is the last thing on his mind. Once upon a time these geeky misfits didn't stand a chance with girls, but post-Gordon Gano vox, that's all changed. When he sings, "I need a girlfriend I'm lonely/ Someone to love me and bug me/ I need to get laid immediately" on "This Sentence Will Ruin/Save Your Life", he knows that someone at the next show will be listening to that line extra closely. And it's that creepy edge that gives the whininess of the vocals the small boost they need. The drawn-out, wordless wails on the following "7th Son" pull the band back sharply into annoying territory, but that's the risk when you walk this particular line. Still, most of it hits. So far so good.
