As Viva Voce, the husband-wife team of Kevin and Anita Robinson created some of Portland's most sophisticated indie pop-- their music was rangey yet concise, downcast yet somehow exuberant. As Blue Giant, they do pretty much the same thing, except this time they add some rootsy elements: acoustic guitars, pedal steel, harmonica, mandolin, and footstomps on wooden floorboards. It's an intriguing twist, especially coming from the Robinsons, who arrived in the Pacific Northwest from the Deep South, with a short stopover in Nashville. Their new band, which formed out of friends hanging around their new Amore!Phonics Studio, almost sounds like a musical travelogue.
Their roots-pop synthesis hints at the Byrds' Sweetheart of the Rodeo and the Kinks' Muswell Hillbillies, although Blue Giant never strays all that far into country and never treats roots music as more than an accessory to these songs. Their ranks include members of the Golden Bears, Swords, and the Decemberists, and it's certainly a tight group, but they seem reluctant to give themselves over to the full implications of the project. Even during the backwoods stomp of "Blue Sunshine" or the rural ramble of "Run Rabbit Run", they've always got one eye on the city skyline in the distance. "Clean the Clock" ends with a Skynyrd-style jam, but it sounds grafted on, as if they were just checking an item off a list. On "Target Heart", Kevin Robinson stretches a romantic metaphor like stale taffy, then borrows the wistful nostalgia of the Kinks' "Do You Remember Walter?" for "Wesley".
Tellingly, the best songs on Blue Giant are also the simplest, pointing to what this record could and perhaps should have been. Anita Robinson's soft vocals almost get lost on "Lonely Girl", but that effect only heightens its cowgirl softness. "Gone for Good" is a short, simple country plaint that tries to remain stone-faced while hinting at overwhelming heartache. Of course, it helps that Corin Tucker duets with Kevin Robinson, her sharp vocals pulling emotively at his stoic performance, as if they're pining at opposite ends of a bar. "The Void Above the Sky" employs an old country-music staple-- the chugging snare beat-- that typically signifies "lonesome" and "train," but here it suggests "death" and "abyss." It's a clever redeployment of roots tropes, but it's an exception: Right down to the clear blue sky and perfectly rustic barn on the album cover, Blue Giant promises something the band can't or won't or simply don't deliver. Their understanding of indie pop music remains as strong as ever, but their take on roots doesn't get much further than the Cracker Barrel off the interstate.
