Philadelphia’s Loose Tooth entered into existence as an item on one woman’s bucket list. In the summer of 2013, Larissa Sapko, the group’s eventual bassist, took it upon herself to enlist her friends in a rock group that “sounded like Yo La Tengo,” as she admitted to Nylon. Four years, two releases, and a host of line-up changes later, Loose Tooth have amassed a reputation as one of the rowdiest, most unpredictable bands in the Philly underground, hopscotching between post-hardcore, midwestern emo, scuzz-rock, and slacker pop. That the band’s delirious din now bears little resemblance to Yo La Tengo’s music is a blessing in disguise; overt fan-service only gets you so far in such a glutted scene.
Loose Tooth do right by eccentricity on their sophomore full-length Big Day, a nine-track joyride where the only constant is stylistic inconsistency. In its 24 minute runtime, the band covers a remarkable amount of ground. Peppy buzz-bin choruses explode into thorny breakdowns; red-meat grunge morphs into math rock, recedes into an ambient interlude, then circles back to punk. And that’s just the first four tracks. The album’s B-side proves just as wide-reaching, albeit noticeably sunnier. The bubbly “Dog Year” recalls Pinback, and the midtempo ballad “Day Old Glory” is a collaboration with showstopping vocalist and fellow Philadelphian Abi Reimold. But the storm clouds come rushing back in for “Fish Boy,” the crunchy, seething closer.
Vocalist and guitarist Kian Sorouri soothes his bandmates’ queasy racket somewhat with plainly-sung melodies, delivered in his lazy, nasal tenor, occasionally punctuated by a deadpan joke or a full-throated yelp. Still, the frontman’s lyrics are anything but pedestrian. “Garlic Soup” frames the conflict between self-control and catharsis as a literal stomach-churner: “Remain totally in control of the things you spew/Releasing totally unconsciously/Feel the shame you spew.” The chorus ramps up the gross-out further, zooming in on an image of the speaker going for a dip in “a river made of [their] own waste” and transmogrifying it into a stomping sing-along, all sweeping chords and roiling bass.
Whether intentional or not, every aspect of Big Day—its brisk pacing, its disjointed arrangements, its thematic frisson—hinges on the undertow of its creators’ stream-of-consciousness. That makes for a potentially tenuous listen, considering the fine line between endearing quirkiness and directionless excess. Barring the occasional missteps—like the underwhelming opener “Sleep With the State Concept,” which buckles under the weight of its lumbering parts—Loose Tooth fall into the former camp. For a band with seemingly limitless ideas, they’re notably disciplined, but on Big Day, less proves to be more.
