Originality is overrated. Indeed, there's something pleasantly, comfortably, even lovingly familiar about just about every last element of Mission Control, the second album by Athens, Georgia's the Whigs. A riff there, a crash here, a little bit of purloined melody there, a little bit of swagger here. Taken as a whole, however, the disc adds up to... OK, so it basically adds up to latter day Local H, redux. But it's hard to fault the Whigs for trying, since they try so damn hard. The secret to the (conditional) success of Mission Control is that the band tackles every last rock'n'roll beat (both literal and figurative) with maximum energy and enthusiasm, mashing rock's rich history, both mainstream and underground, all together into a sharp power-pop collage.
Typically, that's the kind of approach that gets bands signed to desperate and easily impressed majors-- enthusiasm over talent-- and indeed Mission Control marks the group's first album for Dave Matthews ATO imprint. But in the Whigs' case more than a little bit of honest to goodness hard work played into the equation: non-stop touring, good buzz, and most of all the satisfying feeling of calories well burnt.
In fact, one of the most lasting pleasures of the disc is the sense that the Whigs left the studio each day drenched in sweat-- band and board alike. Expertly and very loudly produced by Rob Schnapf, there's not a track on Mission Control that isn't primed for maximum impact, not in the slick spit-and-polish sense but in the explosive sense. Yet for all its intensity, the album's hardly intense. The group's pop instincts are simply too strong, and if the studio magic threatens to steamroll right over the tunes, the band confidently holds its own.
Pixies, late-period Replacements, Spoon on steroids-- these are just a few more touchstones for the openers "Like a Vibration" and "Production City", songs that showcase Parker Gispert's perfectly rough rock voice and in particular Julian Dorio's indomitable drums (here paired with a couple of strong stand-in bassists while the group's lineup was in flux). But familiarity in this case is no grounds for discontent, especially since the Whigs never resort to pastiche.
Everything about the slight breather "Sleep Sunshine"-- from the waltz time to the keyboard intro to the slide guitar-- rings a bell, but the band makes the confection work. Same thing for the 1960s jangle of "Hot Bed" or the huge wall of guitars and pounding drums that comprise "Right Hand On My Heart", or the hooky quiet/loud dynamism of "I Got Ideas". It takes cojones to do this stuff as if no one has ever done it before, but you've got to respect the outcome, and, over-the-top or not, at least Mission Control doesn't fuck around. Like some big car-driving bad seed pulling up outside the high school, it's an easy album to fall for.
