Initially, I had trouble remembering where I'd heard the name of the London four-piece Seafood before. It probably wasn't from their cover of "Levitate Me" on Invisible Records' obscure Pixies tribute disc. Nor was I likely to have noticed their chart activity, which barely cracked the top 100, maxing out in the low-to-mid 90's. Could it have been at that sweaty, word-of-mouth London gig back in 1997, around the time when they first splashed on the scene? Unlikely, since I've never been out of America. Maybe I was wrong. Perhaps I hadn't heard their name before; perhaps, I'd just heard their music many years ago when it was being released under their variety of pseudonyms: Sonic Youth, Pavement, Sebadoh, Dinosaur Jr.
Actually, I'm just playin'. (Word.) Certainly, I was familiar with this English quartet from the barrels of ink that have been poured for them in the British music rags. The attention they're getting is verging dangerously on "hype." Since they're on the Boston-based indie Big Wheel Recreation (and prior to that, the underachieving Fierce Panda label), Seafood is likely receiving this comprehensive coverage on their own merits, rather than being run through the corporate rock marketing machine with its army of sleazy, bribe-happy footsoldier-promoters. The band's debut full-length, Surviving the Quiet, confirms this hypothesis, but strangely.
Seafood is a band out of time, born too late-- more suited to a movement an ocean away and a decade removed than any sort of shared attitude with their contemporary countrymen. They give Britpop a wide berth and a wary eye, and instead favor the good old American guitar band sound. They sound like a group who, as kids, first learned to play their instruments to Pavement CDs instead of Beatles records. (Man, I bet that makes Malkmus feel really old). Brits enamored of American rock pioneers is nothing new; it's a tradition as old as popular rock music itself. But think back-- some good stuff has come out of that national obsession.
"Blech," you're saying. "Why do I want to listen to rehashed, second-rate wannabes?" Wait, friend. The good news is that Seafood isn't half-bad at their unabashed, on-the-sleeves, tribute band routine. When was the last time you really, honest-Abe enjoyed a Dinosaur Jr album instead of just believing you were supposed to? Better yet, when was the last time you made some sort of Grumpy Gramps statement like "[mumble mumble] just don't [mumble] like they used to?" Seafood are part voodoo alchemist and part doppelganger, resurrecting not only the style of our favorite dead and washed-up pre-grunge college radio giants, but also, in part, their substance.
"Belt" is an impressive use of dynamic range, with the now-familiar-to-all subdued/explosive technique. "Guntrip" possesses a swirling, noisy aggression, but with a healthy, cathartic undertone. Kind of like therapy, as opposed to rage. Singles like "Easy Path" and "This is Not an Exit" are dead-on radio whores that will stick in the heads of millions like peanut butter-flavored taffy. Of course, Seafood have their softer side, too-- evidenced by gentle nods to Nashville in the slide guitar-rich "Dear Leap the Ride" and the folky, melodic "Beware Design," intimately sung by drummer Caroline Banks.
Surviving the Quiet won't win album of the year; it will just win fans. It won't influence others; it will only preserve its own influences, uncorrupted. Seafood is the kind of band that, in a small but significant way, renews hope. They make you feel like the music you used to enjoy is still being made by someone who loved it just as much as you did.
