A lo-fi approach to recording obscures many things-- instrumental interplay, subtle shifts in vocal tone, lyrics-- but one thing it never masks is enthusiasm. In fact, lo-fi almost always accentuates it, which is why even the most financially solvent of bands have been known to purposefully muddy or smear their sound, sacrificing clarity for intensity and choosing mystery over transparency. If you read much music criticism you'll know (and I'm as guilty as anyone) that some of the gravest pejoratives are "tasteful," "mannered," and "polite." And of course, it's damn near impossible to sound tasteful or polite when your songs are coming through layers of hiss, distortion, and fuzz.
Embracing a lo-fi aesthetic is certainly an acceptable and useful tool for communicating your music, but ideally the tunes themselves should be strong enough to stand on their own. It would be unfair to say an album like the Love Language's self-titled debut is a failure unless you can imagine the songs would've sounded just as good had they been recorded squeakily clean. Still, it's almost invariably the case that hooks and melodies (which The Love Language luckily has in spades), and not technique, are what keeps a listener returning over and over again.
As a touring entity, the Love Language are a seven-piece band currently based in Raleigh, N.C., yet their eponymous first LP was written and recorded solely by frontman Stuart McLamb. Like recent indie breakthroughs Wavves and Times New Viking, McLamb uses lo-fi as a filter for his keen pop sensibilities, though his approach is far friendlier and less abrasive than either of those acts. Over the brief 29-minute course of the album, McLamb cycles through a wide range of indie-rock, country, and early-pop styles, all delivered with shouty charm and in-the-red verve, roughly approximating a sock-hop-era Arcade Fire. Particularly effervescent are "Lalita", which rides a bold fuzzed-out guitar line and equally demonstrative drums to somehow convey shambling joy in spite of its embittered lyrics, and "Sparxxx", which sounds like a great lost Nugget from a band of forgotten garage moptops, making endearing use of a xylophone. Suffice to say, instruments bleed into each other pretty liberally here, creating a boisterous racket McLamb only emphasizes with his heavy reliance on tambourine, most generously deployed on the punch-drunk, waltzing "Nocturne" (which is also outfitted with a neat little surf guitar lick) and the closing "Graycourt".
Lyrically this is a record undeniably tinged with romantic strife, yet, unlike lovelorn former Raleigh denizen Justin Vernon of Bon Iver, McLamb's songs are largely energetic and sprightly. Even the spare and clearly aggrieved opener, "Two Rabbits" exudes McCartney-ish charms, while the country-tinged moper "Stars" musically exudes such a bygone innocence that it's hard to evince any real emotional peril. Of course, a cringe-worthy line like "little girls tell the biggest lies" certainly doesn't help, but blessedly it's soon subsumed, like everything else, beneath sweetly obfuscating blankets.
