For whatever reason, psych-pop seems more prone to reductive descriptions than most other genres. For critics, it's all too easy: Just state the bandname and album title, discuss the intensity of the lead songwriter's Brian Wilson fixation, and critique him based on the effectiveness with which his band approximates Pet Sounds. For extra points, drop words like "hallucinogenic" or "sun-drenched" in the review as often as possible, and-- if you're really good-- throw in a well-placed Curt Boettcher reference. There you have it: Band X is another petty homage to 1960s California pop.
I often wonder why music fans aren't more resistant to this type of summary delineation; surely there's more to Jeff Magnum's twisted genius than a childish idolization of the Beach Boys, just as Will Cullen Hart's powers don't derive from something abnormal in the water he drank as a kid. I suppose this critical tactic is prevalent because there really are artists who fit this simplistic bill, ones whose records are about as essential to a pop fan as the work of a bad Zeppelin knockoff would be to a metalhead.
I've always pegged Of Montreal as one of those inessential bands. The only real adoration I've felt for any of their tracks is for "Don't Ask Me to Explain", a simplistic ditty from the band's debut LP that manages to do Weezer better than Weezer themselves. And although Of Montreal haven't released a real dud in the band's eight-year recording life, the most engaging thing about their songs is often their longwinded, quasi-literary titles. Evidently, the band has had trouble keeping the attention of record labels as well, spreading their seven-album yield amongst five different imprints.
Two years removed from Aldhils Arboretum, their last studio album of new material, the band has had-- by Of Montreal standards-- a relatively long time to hone their sound and explore a more cohesive approach to songwriting, one less encumbered by oblique concepts. Since 1997, Of Montreal have churned out roughly an LP a year, not to mention untold EPs, B-sides, and an effective collection of singles. The group's longest previous respite between LPs was the two-year hiatus between The Gay Parade and Coquelicot Asleep in the Poppies: A Variety of Whimsical Verse. And while Coquelicot was clearly more ambitious than its predecessor, it wasn't a vast transformation in either quality or style. All told, there was no reason to expect any great strides from this dependably generic quintet this time out, which makes Satanic Panic in the Attic all the more surprising.
Satanic Panic displays a considerable maturation in Kevin Barnes' songwriting. Everything, from the Sgt. Pepper's-copping album art to the wontedly verbose lyrics and song titles, would suggest a predictable collection of spindly psych-pop. But when the music actually starts, the differences become apparent. "Disconnect the Dots" begins with a Doppler-affected drum sample, before the abrupt appearance of both handclaps and a verifiably indelible guitar riff. Seconds later, Barnes arrives, bearing an invitation: "Come disconnect the dots with me, poppy," he intones, before deliquescing into a blissful mini-chorus. From there, the song shifts effortlessly from section to section, orchestrating a dense but well-balanced array of organ drones, vocal harmonies, astral guitar peals, and interlocking electro-acoustic percussion. And this is all in the album's first 4\xBD minutes.
"Disconnect the Dots" is more than just an album pacesetter-- it's a mission statement for a band remade, or at least reconsidered. The new Of Montreal grab your attention, not deliberately invite it to wander, as the next track, "Lysergic Bliss", makes abundantly clear. The song is perhaps most reminiscent of the band's earlier work, sluicing through multiple time and key changes with operatic grandiosity. On a previous effort, the song's fragments might have either fallen apart from lack of a coherent vision or been mashed together to form a mottled soup of disparate ideas, but here, the track is handled with impressive finesse; even the bridge's extended a cappella harmonies have a natural flow.
Elsewhere, Satanic Panic frequently leans closer to Steely Dan than the Beach Boys, which lends a refreshing dose of realism to the implicit reverie of songs like "My British Tour Diary". Elsewhere, "Eros' Entropic Tundra" and "Erroneous Escape into Eric Eckles" are both delicately refined, while still retaining Of Montreal's psychedelic salience. And while the music hits with somewhat of a blunted edge, Barnes' harmonies are always unimpeachably catchy.
My naysaying of Of Montreal's earlier work is only meant to underscore the impressive growth displayed here. While albums such as The Gay Parade and Coquelicot often drowned in oppressive amounts of cheerfulness, it's possible to take Satanic Panic seriously while still enjoying even its stickiest melodies. It may lack the raw inventiveness of a potential peer such as Olivia Tremor Control's Dusk at Cubist Castle, but Of Montreal are psych-pop of a different strain. Satanic Panic in the Attic is idiosyncratic without being hokey, and although the band has been stiffed recognition for the consistency of their previous work, this album should make the group much more difficult to ignore.
