Let's all give Canada a standing "O". Our northerly neighbor's universal healthcare and de facto cannabis tolerance provide a beacon of hope for sinus-congested, stone-sober freelance writers everywhere, while its winters make even Chicago seem habitable. Just a few years ago, the nation confirmed Ross Perot's worst free-trade nightmare by insourcing all the good indie-rock gigs (a giant not-sucking sound). On debut album This Cursed House, an Ann Arbor, Mich. septet not coincidentally also called Canada prove that their knowledge of recent indietastic touchstones is more than name-deep.
Half the time This Cursed House sounds less like Canada (the country) than like Sufjan Stevens (the precious cabin-folkie). Beginning and ending with cricket chirps, the album bets huge on Upper Peninsula layers of harmony, cello, Rhodes, harmonica, banjo, melodica, glockenspiel, zither, flugelhorn, sleigh bell, wineglass (crystal), pad (paper), etc. (etc.). Of four instrumentals, one is based around a typewriter rhythm track. On "Beige Stationwagon", a library voice sadly scolds: "He should have kissed his wife/ Like only a husband could." It's the 2005 album of the year.
No worries, as the rest of the time Canada (the septet) also sound like bands from Canada (the country). This Cursed House reaches for the somber midwinter mood, Renaissance Faire plenitude, and unrestrained grandeur of Montreal's Arcade Fire, though not the melodic chops or Byrnean paranoia-- no head, just talking. "Look to the Trees" opens with swaying "Neighborhood #2 (Laika)" accordion, and "Madisonville, KY" is a "Neighborhood #4 (7 Kettles)"-like sprawling slowdance about the deep meaning of everyday objects, while "The King's Ashes" and "Cold Mouse Winter" share the Butlers' fascination with easeful death and freezing loneliness. So, it's also the 2004 album of the year.
Too bad it doesn't quite work that way. The stylistic tics of any pop musician, from the Beatles to Beyoncé, are rarely the stuff of year-end lists without everything else-- tunes, pacing, performance, and sometimes even persona-- falling perfectly into place. Underneath their arty gestures, Canada's songs are soft, gawky freshman-rock, Parachute-era Guster without the wit, bongos, or "Mona Lisa" (ahem). Canada's acoustic guitar strums, the real meat of This Cursed House, are pretty much rotten, squeaky with misplayed notes. So, too, the lyrics: "Where were you?/ When the trees started to fall/ ...When the birds began to call/ ...When the weeds were grown tall/ ...When our houses were still so small"... oh dear God please kill us all. Look, Canada are young, they could still flesh out their ambitions on some future record, and one day we'll probably even discover this is all somehow Dubya's fault. In the meantime, blame Canada.
