I have this theory about how music criticism is supposed to work. Critics listen and write, readers read and consider. Over time, a regular reader of a publication finds a commonality of opinion with one or two reviewers; their notions of what's good or bad converge more often than the other hacks. Trust is formed-- they bond. It's interactive and symbiotic. We're the parasites; you're the hosts. Those of you who buy into the idea of the officially sanctioned Pitchfork opinion (or a uniform opinion of any publication) are missing the point. For the most part, editors are too busy to be worrying about homogeneity of judgment.
Which is what allows me to disagree so significantly with my colleague Mr. Sandlin who reviewed Clem Snide's previous offering to the world, Your Favorite Music, last year. Did Clem Snide really go from putting out a 2.1 album to a 7.0? Of course not. Issues of the relevance of numerical ratings aside, all this demonstrates is that there's a spectrum of taste operating here. Individuals, with biases and preferences. I'd have rated Your Favorite Music higher; Michael would (I'd wager) come up shorter on The Ghost of Fashion. Somewhere in between lies the truth. Just ask Kurosawa.
On their third full-length, Clem Snide gracefully boxstep between the cynicism and genuine wonder they stumbled over before. Approaching this music with a cynical ear exaggerates that aspect, and the music becomes insufferable. Come at it too naively, and you'll miss the occasional evil lines smuggled into the songs. A musical tightrope. The Ghost of Fashion is a perfect example of getting out of a listening experience what you invest in it.
Clem Snide show signs that they've matured beyond aiming for nothing more ambitious than a clever pun, and that they're no longer satisfied with the predictable song construct. Instead, their new goal is to just make good music. They no longer beg to be the center of attention; they just are. Plenty of changes are apparent even on the first listen. The music sacrifices a bit of the band's old country leanings for more traditional indie pop. Eef Barzelay's muppety vocals seem less smarmy and more heartfelt. The musicianship is more accomplished, and overall, the songs sound less contrived and more spontaneous.
Like the band, these songs evolve. They go somewhere. "Don't Be Afraid of your Anger" metamorphs from its swaying dirge intro to an Acuff/Rose ramble. "Moment in the Sun" ends in a "Baba O'Riley" frenzy after beginning with a cornfed Southern rock mid-tempo jangle. Elsewhere, "Long Lost Twin" provides perfect fiesta music for a warm summer evening on the patio, under the string lights. Mariachi horns contribute the appropriate touch of sadness needed to buoy lyrics that pine, "The sea of taillights that we all must swim/ Tonight I feel like Elvis longing for his long lost twin/ Clean up the mess that Eve and Adam got us in." But the best evidence of the band's rapid, time-lapse development is found in the hymnal "The Curse of Great Beauty." The song provides an unexpected goosebump moment on the disc, before blending into the chimy, organic doodling that begins the waltz "Joan Jett of Arc."
Musically-sound but an eye-roller lyrically, the string of puns in "Joan Jett" triggers a series of misfires, beginning with the next track, the aimless, indulgent and poorly-constructed "The Junky Jews." Through the peaceful, but barely-there "Ancient Chinese Secret Blues," and the brief throwaway track, "The Ballad of Unzer Charlie," the last quarter of the album feels like a cheap Wal-Mart mountain bike slipping out of gear when pedaled too hard, and they lose the momentum they'd clearly worked hard to build up.
However, "No One's More Happy than You" closes things on a positive note. The song-vignette begins with a majestic blurt of horns and Eef's best mimicry of Stipe at his drawliest. "A beautiful Hackensack night/ Two teenagers kiss and hold tight/ The satellite swimming above/ Is sending a message of love." You'll never convince me that Camper Van Beethoven's similar "Life is Grand" is secretly mocking me, and I don't accept that Barzelay's sentiment here is anything but sincere.
In the end, with the flaws weighed against gems on the balances that are this reviewer's ears, The Ghost of Fashion represents only a few steps up the ladder for Barzelay and Snide, not an escalator ascent to the top. But at least they're climbing. They're definitely climbing.
