The Jim Yoshii Pile-Up is a deceptively enticing name for a band specializing in schmaltzy gut-spilling over dadaist Death Cab arrangements. Then again, when histrionics are your thing and you're inextricably linked to a drama queen extraodinaire such as Xiu Xiu's Jamie Stewart, being upstaged is inevitable. Yet despite the perpetual malaise, the Oakland five-piece has parlayed their nihilism into two impressive LPs.
Since a 2003 joint EP with the indie tear-jerkers, the Pile-Up's bleak sound is becoming too depressing to sustain itself, and Picks Us Apart lopsidedly focuses on melancholia over music. Although formulaic, these guys have their sterilized take on Sunny Day Real Estate down pat. Paul Gonzenbach's listless demeanor manifests itself in equally colorless guitars and austere basslines-- basically emo in its rawest form. To no one's surprise, Ben Gibbard hails the band as his personal favorite, though fortunately they haven't exchanged their challenging sound for teeny bop fawning like Death Cab's new crossover-tailored approach. Of course, none of this instrumental stuff matters once Picks Us Apart starts rolling and Gonzenbach stoically sings along to a suicide note on "A Toast to the Happy Couple".
In this opening track, Gonzenbach exudes despair, failure, and indignation in one fell swoop. Before you can say "Sounds like Pedro the Lion!", Gonzenbach drops the morbid line "To my father...I leave a blood-stained mattress/ To my mother with her head to the wall/ I tried...but failed to do the simplest things that somehow mean the most." After four more minutes of excruciating introspection, the persona concludes his letter with one final "fuck you" to the world: "You are all hereby formally indicted." Not exactly the most riveting opener, the song hangs like an albatross, and the album never really recovers. "Silver Sparkler" sports a nifty bassline reminiscent of early-90s lo-fi, though it repeats till exhaustion. Likewise, "Heart My Home" shines as the lone ballad amidst an array of homogenous slow-rockers, but sadly Gonzenbach fails to reproduce anything equally beautiful yet straightforward.
Fortunately, the Pile-Up's unwavering consistency does damage control for this suicide pact of an album. Some of the more sprawling numbers evoke early Interpol EPs as droning, reverberating riffs are in no short supply. Still, Gonzenbach's funeral party doesn't seem to do justice to its own gravitas. When Jamie Stewart screams about chopping his own head off, he means business. In contrast, Gonzenbach's deadpan delivery has the emotional directness of an embittered AOL conversation and the lasting appeal of MSN Instant Messenger, making these spotlighted vocals all the more puzzling on an otherwise solid album.
