Fujiya & Miyagi have always been open about their admiration for Krautrock icons Can, but that influence has as much to do with methodology as mere mimicry. Using a literal interpretation of the concept of "art rock," Can famously approached recording much like sculptors, chiseling down extended, amorphous jams into more manageable forms, if not quite linear songs. Fujiya & Miyagi simply take this logic one step further, distilling the syncopated grooves and mantric incantations of Can circa Ege Bamyasi or Future Days into accessible dance pop. (Even the band's M.O.-- British guys operating under a Japanese alias to make Teutonic funk-- is redolent of Can's multicultural composition and ethos.)
But there is, of course, a crucial distinction between Fujiya & Miyagi and their forebears-- F&M's preference for steely precision and sleek minimalism means that their music lacks the volatility and mercurial quality that made Can's work so eminently fascinating. And while they've enlisted a somewhat surprising choice of producer for Ventriloquizzing-- Devendra Banhart/Vetiver compatriot Thom Monahan-- the new album does little to upset their pulse-regulated tempos and hushed-voice intimations.
As on the preceding Transparent Things and Lighbulbs, consumption and materialism comprise the thematic grist of Ventriloquizzing. But Fujiya & Miyagi are self-aware enough to acknowledge that their music is essentially just another lifestyle accoutrement-- in the spirit of Kraftwerk's "Showroom Dummies" and Air's "Electronic Performers", the opening title track sees F&M likening themselves to puppets, emotionally empty and easily manipulated. Ironically, this admission of their own synthetic quality marks one of the few occasions when Ventriloquizzing really catches fire, as the song's ping-pong bass line yields to a powerful burst of analog-synth drones. But for all the premium they place on motion and rhythm, Fujiya & Miyagi songs rarely take you very far away from where they begin; whether employing a live drummer or an 808, the grooves are locked in early, with only minor textural tweaks (e.g., the invigorating Suicide-style organ fuzz on "Yoyo" and "Tinsel & Glitter"; the haunting choral vocals of "Universe") to subtly increase the intensity.
As a result, Ventriloquizzing places undue emphasis on David Best's sing-spiel to move the action along. While he does have a flair for understated satire-- the piano-rolled "Taiwanese Boots" cheekily itemizes food choices as a measure of status, while "Minestrone" updates an old parable about the devil positing the titular soup as the ultimate temptation-- Best tends to confuse repetition with profundity. It's no secret Fujiya & Miyagi aren't Japanese, but Best's lyrics often sound cribbed from a beginner's guidebook to common English phrases ("you don't know which side your bread is buttered on," "you go up and go down like a yo-yo"), and his sinister, admonishing delivery doesn't invest them with any more weight or meaning. Over the "Yoo Doo Right" bass pulse of the closing "Universe", Best repeats over and over again: "You love to hear the sound of your own voice." On an album that takes glee in skewering the chattering classes, at least Best is self-effacing enough to save the last shot for himself.
