"My favorite part of the show was when he took off his shirt...dreamy." As if to accent the comment, she made a sweeping motion across her brow with one hand-- wiping away invisible sweat-- while the other deftly locked itself around the steering wheel. Agitated-- she knew I was being forced to see a band I had no true interest in-- there was surprisingly little hesitation in her voice when she asked, "Didn't you enjoy it?"
Its not as if The Dandy Warhols and I have any bad blood between us, but my previous exposures to the band have been sordid to say the very least. True, I met my significant other and eternal concert partner while absentmindedly reviewing Thirteen Tales of Urban Bohemia for my college radio station-- her noticing the empty jewel-case beside my bag and inquisitively approaching me as I listened-- but those tunes have waned appreciably over the years, turning balanced neutrality into mild disparity at the mere mention of Courtney Taylor's troupe. Add to this sentimental nostalgia my recent concert attendance, and my initially lukewarm feelings of distaste mutate into venomous and irascible abhorrence. Petty as it may be, I fully admit that I am not above disliking a band based solely on the fact that they cater to my fears of inadequacy as a male and mate.
Of course, the only reason I mention this is to caution the patient reader against lambasting my opinion of Welcome To The Monkey House based solely upon the above numerical rating and any personal adherence one may have to Dandy-ism. While it's true that I hold damning grudges against some musicians for no other reason than misdirected machismo (guilty feelings? mere jealousy?), I would never pan the actual music if it fairly displayed some amount of talented songwriting and quality. To wit, I would sooner punch every member of the Saddle Creek family in the nose-- barring The Faint and Now It's Overhead-- than shake their hands or say hello, yet I continue to surreptitiously purchase and endorse every recent Bright Eyes release. Thus, believe the heart of this kindred music-lover when I state that Monkey House is comparable to and nearly as enjoyable as a pelvic exam with chilled instruments-- seemingly fun, but shaky and ill-advised.
Beginning on a warble-- the sound of Courtney Taylor's tongue drilling directly through his cheek-- the title track is a short and typical Warhols' sound that pokes fun at the fabric of pop-culture while simultaneously unraveling it. Flippantly spouting off lines such as "When Michael Jackson dies/ We're covering Blackbird" would be laughable and forgiveable if delivered over any accompaniment other than the dry and clipping electric guitar line that the group pounds out for the song's brief temporal existence. Partly redeeming is the transition into "We Used To Be Friends", a track that fully exhibits the aided production by Nick Rhodes of Duran Duran-fame. On it, one can hear the warm synthesizers-- otherwise known as Dandy's flavor-of-the-month-- replacing nearly all traces of the guitar in the group's sound, as Taylor pinches his prostrate in some unsettling, yet strangely alluring falsetto vocalizations.
A comfortable furniture-filled-room production leaks into "Plan A", a track that sports another D2-member, Simon Le Bon, on back-up vocals. Musical influences and heart vying for equal space on the band's sleeve, the song is catchy enough with a unique sonic layering of acoustic and electronically derived sounds, but suffers for its inability to let go-- the chorus of "all of us, sing about it" suffering well past its time of captivation or interest. Similar tracks-- "Insincere Because I", "Heavenly", and the morose "You Came In Burned"-- suffer the same fate, drawing out tunes that couldn't hold anyone's attention for thirty seconds, much less beyond the five minute mark.
Not content with their own lackluster tune, "I Am A Scientist" drags one of Robert Pollard's best songs through the mud, the band hijakcing the experience of Chic guitarist/producer Nile Rodgers in the process. Preaching atop an empty pulpit, Courtney drops ironic faux-pedagogic phobias such as "I try to live on science alone" and "I tell you what, mathematically I'm happening," before plunging into another hard-beat/fuzzy-bass loop that ends on a whimper of instrumental ornamentation. Equally predictable: the slight-guitar return of "I Am Over It", the Tony Visconti-produced and T. Rex/Bowie aped "Hit Rock Bottom" and "The Dope", and the slower jangle-pop genesis of "I Am Sound".
A bright spot amongst the tarnish is the Evan Dando co-write "You Were The Last High", the song that undoubtedly gets the group another quarter of a million records sold-- the A-Ha influenced composition that will cause phone company executives' ears to perk up in advertisement bliss. Alternately sounding like the mix-tape song of choice for your average sixteen year-old girl in the throes of first-luv or a Jarvis Cocker solo release, "The Dandy Warhols Love Everyone" rounds us out as best as can be expected-- doo-doo's and wah-ooo-oooh's augmented by electronic beats and a twice-bitten fuzzy bass line.
Unfortunately, these songs highlight the poseur mentality and insincerity that paradoxically plagues and blesses The Dandy Warhols-- one side of the coin endowing them with innocent condescension of their musical roots, the other holding them accountable for their acoustic laziness in the face of so much potential. The decision rests solely with the band now as to whether future releases will make good on this latent talent, or whether they will continue to rely upon breathy sighs, the crowd-pleasing rush of hedonistic pleasure, and the infidelity of exposed nipples.
