Remember Fruitopia? How good that sounded for a couple minutes? They'd roll out these big, beautiful kaleidoscopic ads before movies sometimes, swarming strawberries in stereo, and you'd look down at your Cherry Coke and feel somehow as though you'd failed. Of course, in the lobby's light, you came to find out that Fruitopia was not in fact made by hippies using ecologically sound methods for growing giant fruit, but rather extracted and besaccharined by the very Coca-Cola corporation that had seemed like the source of so much pancreas-punching horror not moments before. Fruitopia was, in a way, more evil than your simple soda; evil, because it tricked you into believing it was good when it wasn't.
Remember Ima Robot? Ima Robot were one of those bandwagon-hopping jerk-punk bands that emerged around 2003 to capitalize on the burgeoning jerk-punk moment; there were many, alas. As nicely zeitgeisty as their leadoff single "Dynomite" was, there was always something weirdly disingenuous about Ima Robot-- that they were basically Beck's then-current backing band led by some shouty haircut probably had something to do with it-- but they came and went so fast it was hard to find the time to care. They weren't evil, but they weren't missed.
Just as you'd feel a little funny if some hippie ideals were being espoused to sell you fancy Kool-Aid, you'd feel a little funny if a jerk-punker-- and I hesitate to say failed, but, yeah, failed jerk-punker-- reemerged a couple of years on as some kind of robe-donning, beard-rocking guru sort, wouldn't you? Well, get ready: Ima Robot lead singer Alex Ebert has reeimagined himself in the image of messiah-type Edward Sharpe. Gone is the lanky, nervy guy sticking an exclamation mark at the end of every thought; this Sharpe character's a real laid-back, lovey-dovey dude, one with his head very much in the clouds. But even he seems onto this dichotomy between the free-spirited music on Up From Below, his and the Magnetic Zeros' first one together, and the slightly disingenuous feel of it all. "It's the magical mystery kind," he opines on opener "40 Day Dream", before adding another qualifier: "must be a lie." Indeed!
Sharpe and his Zeros dip their many toes into the, um, "sounds of the 1960s"; there's some Cowsills-like froth, Friends of Distinction multipart ooby-doobies, some Donovan-style slowpoke revelry, and even a little dour Village Green-era Kinks drollery. But the admirably far-reaching results nevertheless come up short. There's handclaps and horns, sprightly choruses and thousand-part harmonies to go around, but all the fluff either seems appliqued onto the song as an afterthought or the only real thought the song's got. A carefully curated list of influences abound, but no matter who they're reminding you of, Sharpe and company are careful not to outdo anything that's preceded them in energy or inspiration or both. It's oddly uptight, heavily studied music, too-- never once approaching anything like "looseness." Lyrically, it's a lot of love-your-fellow-man stuff that doesn't exactly pass for insight sitting next to some kinda gnarly Jamie Stewart childhood trauma. It's as if Sharpe's got his arms open so wide, he's never going to reach anybody. And all the weird juxtapositions and half-formed ideas in tandem on Up From Below lend it a repurposed feel, like Sharpe-- pardon me, Ebert-- had the songs and figured, with 11 musicians on hand he'd find something for them to do.
But then there's "Home", a jaunty duet between Sharpe and ladyfriend/bandmate Jade Castrinos. It's the one moment that justifies Up From Below's existence. Sure, it calls to mind another fairly different classic sound of the 60s-- Johnny and June Carter Cash's conversational duets-- but, thanks in no small part to Castrinos' whiskey-splashed pipes, it feels glaringly original amidst the daisy chain surrounding it, an obvious affection passing between Sharpe and Castrinos as they murmur sweet nothings. Weird to say about a hippie, but it's humanity that's missing in Sharpe's mild but mannered and certainly unmemorable music, which feels focus-grouped, stone-washed, and artificial.
