"Ah, another Sea and Cake record," you might think. Which sounds dismissive yet is comforting-- the Sea and Cake are the definition of consistent and singular: They don't sound like anyone else, they're too smart and careful to make a truly bad record, and they're comfortable with existing range of possibilities of the project. So a new Sea and Cake album means you know what you are getting. This is their eighth full-length, and it follows just a year and a half after Everybody, so maybe some people haven't had a chance yet to miss the band. A lot more time separated each of the prior three (The Fawn in 1997, Oui in 2000, and One Bedroom in 2003), after all. Another Sea and Cake record, so soon?
But those who followed the band in its early days will recall that the Sea and Cake released their first three albums in just over a year, a run that, looking back, was one of those rare examples of a truly original band overflowing with creativity. Beginning as yet another side project in a Chicago scene that seemed like nothing but-- often great but relatively lesser bands like Shrimp Boat, the Coctails, and (sorry) Tortoise were among their antecedents-- the Sea and Cake were the ideal sorta-pop face of post-rock, as challenging and complex as their peers but a hell of a lot more listenable. Their self-tilted debut, Nassau, and The Biz-- the three records in that first early run-- are stuffed with fantastic songs and brimming with energy. During a decade obsessed with fusion, constantly looking for ways to integrate previously obscure music of the past into something new and fresh, the Sea and Cake hit a vein where the bright guitars of West Africa and the skittering samba of Brazil could mix with jazz, soul, calypso, and more under the umbrella of indie rock. With so much thrown into the pot, the early Sea and Cake enjoyed a flexibility that allowed them to create songs at will, and during that stretch songs like "Jacking the Ball", "The Biz", and "Parasol" sounded both surprising and strangely inevitable.
In 1997, the Sea and Cake released The Fawn, a smoother, slicker, and more muted album than its predecessors, and also one that leaned heavily toward electronics. Its sound and approach guided the band during the quiet period of the next ten years, during which they would release the two records that, while still good (there's that consistency again), stand now as their weakest. The problem with Oui and One Bedroom is hard to define since "coasting" isn't really a pejorative with this band; their M.O. is such that you want them to coast a little, to float along unencumbered by friction. Still, last year's Everybody showed what was missing from those records, serving as a reminder that melodic invention, a bit more drive, and quirky hooks had central roles on the best Sea and Cake albums. And all those qualities are present on Car Alarm to an even greater degree, making this their best album in over a decade.
The album is called Car Alarm and song titles allude to things like "Weekend", "Window Sills", and "Down in the City", all of which could conceivably be combined to sketch out the album's themes, maybe something about modern urban life and escape or something. But that's not the way that singer Sam Prekop's lyrics work. Words seem chosen for their musical qualities first, and there's faith that a stream of unconnected phrases will for each listener add up to something personal that makes sense. And it does indeed work out that way. The mood of the songs isn't driven by content of the words, but by the overall feel, the way the production and arrangements and melodious turns of phrase combine to create pictures in your head.
So the chiming acoustic guitars of "Weekend", rubbing up against the bright, chirpy keyboard sequence, all pivoting around the careful wobble of Eric Claridge's bass, evokes a brisk pan across a frenetic streetscape. The easy up-tempo chug of "On a Letter", with the drums and bass curling around each other for warmth, a guitar break with the relaxed gregariousness of a Jerry Garcia solo, and Sam Prekop jumping up a half-octave to his whispery upper register for emphasis, makes you think, say, of those moments when you feel just on the cusp of something great and are ready to make your move. The uptempo and spacious "A Fuller Moon", with its hints of steel drum and bubbly beat, is a great reminder of how effective the Sea and Cake can be when they put together a tune you can easily hum. "Keep on holding on," Prekop sings, but there's never too much at stake in a Sea and Cake song, and that's the way it should be. Theirs is a contemplative sort of music, unapologetically cerebral even as it provides its share of physical pleasures.
The sound throughout-- as ever recorded and mixed by drummer John McEntire-- is gorgeous, and a nice reminder of how thoughtful simplicity can still carry a lot of weight. The guitar tone during the brief solo on "New Schools", brushed with the kind of glowing distortion that can only come from a vintage amp that's endured a long life in our debased world, is breathtaking, and other subtle touches abound. The minute-long synth pulse of "CMS Sequence" that follows "On a Letter" reinforces the album's commitment to flow, as its 12 songs in 38 minutes are laid together just so. The trend continues with the closing "Mirrors", an abstract but pretty 98-second steel drum instrumental finds the album-- another Sea and Cake record, yes, but one even completists will continue to reach for-- slipping quietly out the door when no one is looking.
