Head-Bloodthirsty-Lover-in-Charge David Shouse is probably best known for fronting The Grifters, an erstwhile Memphis indie rock band that seems to be talked about more than listened to. For instance, none of the alleged Grifters fans I know seem to own any of their albums ("I think I used to have that one with the demon-looking guy on the front...") or even remember what they sounded like. How has such a supposedly beloved band fallen so deeply into the cracks?
I have a theory: Shouse writes good music that you enjoy as long as you're listening to it, but which flies out of your head as soon as you stop. People mainly namecheck The Grifters due to a period of prominence on Sub Pop in the mid-to-late 1990s, but his Darla- and V2-released LPs with Those Bastard Souls have long since been relegated to sub-footnote status in the indie rock annals. And his current project, The Bloodthirsty Lovers, is even more of a mirage than his last two groups (I think-- what did they sound like again?). The music hangs before your eyes, swirling like an exhaled breath on a cold day. But as soon as the record ends, the first breeze shatters it into oblivion.
The Bloodthirsty Lovers have garnered rave reviews for their spacious, gauzy yet anthemic laptop-pop. Comparisons to Big Star, Radiohead, Pink Floyd, Brian Eno, and The Flaming Lips weigh down their press clips. You'd think a band with such effusive critical éclat and high-profile points of reference would be on everybody's lips, but ask yourself (and this is crucial): Do you know anyone who listens to them?
Perhaps Bloodthirsty Lovers are that peculiar band who critics love and fans ignore (hello, Flying Saucer Attack), but I think it's more like this-- you listen to The Delicate Seam, you dig it, and then just forget to listen to it again. I'd lay this pneumonic short-circuit at the feet of Shouse's melodies. They're charming enough, but often meander so capriciously through the big 80s drums, Frenchkiss' standard-issue Les Savy Fav basslines, and coruscating, glitchy ambience that they don't instantly sear their signatures onto neurons like the sonically similar (if more memorable) synthetic popscapes of The Flaming Lips.
Indeed, of the comparisons The Bloodthirsty Lovers have drawn, The Flaming Lips one is most accurate. But where the Lips are linear and hummable, the Lovers radiate out in concentric rings and often elude melodic summary. The Delicate Seam-- clocking in at a lean eight tracks-- finds Shouse collaborating with Big Ass Truck's Steve Selvidge and ex-Dambuilders drummer Kevin March. It opens with "The Mods Go Mad", a dizzy digi-anthem laden with bombastic guitars, incandescent electronic scribbles, and skewed aphorisms like, "You're my napalm; I'm your codeine."
"Stiltwalkers' Local #119" stretches a straining vocal melody over plodding drums, rigidly buzzing chords, and reverberating electro flourishes. The aberrant "A Postcard from the Sea" is truly catchy, recalling the simple, mid-tempo pop of Galaxie 500-- all shiny chords and peppy emoting. The liquid swing of "El Shocko" imagines The Beach Boys as the ghost in the machine, delicate harmonies surging through fiber-optic wires. And closer "Medicated" features vocals from Young People singer Katie Eastburn; its languid strumming, percolating drones, and Eastburn's understated murmurs waft by like a hazy memory. And so, we finally locate The Bloodthirsty Lovers' particular double bind: The obscure, amorphous quality that makes their music interesting is the same quality that makes it difficult for the mind to hold on to.
