Like members of any good scene, the bands in Baltimore's Wham City collective and satellite friends-- Dan Deacon, Ponytail, Lizz King, Lexie Mountain Boys, Santa Dads, Videohippos, to name a few-- approach a similar aesthetic from different angles. Common ground: the exclamation point (everything is invariably rad! or free! or awesome! or something you can yell), indulgence in rebellion and art-school regression (warehouse squalor, communal everything), and, relatedly, a warped sense of nostalgia. This last point, though, is where the bands part ways: Lexie Mountain Boys sound like a playpen getting knocked over, Dan Deacon has encouraged audiences to imagine themselves in the rec rooms of their parents' houses scarfing pizza, and Videohippos-- well, Videohippos took me longer to parse.
It wouldn't be fair to call them the scene's melancholics, but let's propose a dichotomy: Dan Deacon makes kiddie overstimulation sound like fun. Relentless, ga-ga fun. Call the doctor! because I'm choking on fun. Videohippos' approach of wrapping simple, melodic pop-punk and Blondie riffs in toylike synths and effects pedals is that feeling's underbelly: numb, slate. Unbeast the Leash is 13 terse theme songs for an eight-hour day of cartoons and video games. And pre-adolescent boredom, lest you forget, is a rigorous bitch. Of course, the effect isn't just to retrieve that queasy, socked-out feeling from childhood, but-- and this is abundantly obvious from drummer Kevin O'Meara's video projections that blare during the band's performances-- to remind you that, yeah, media is still crammed down our throats, Bush Jr.'s smiling face is burned into our eager eyes, America eats its young, civilization is doomed, and so forth.
In that sense, Unbeast the Leash is a uniquely sad record, one that reminded me at first of the way New Order made dance music for clubgoers and downcast eyes alike-- at a Videohippos show in mid-July, I was among only a few people dancing, and the dancing was more like swaying. Photographs subsequently revealed Smiths fans quarantined in suburban bedrooms. O'Meara's kit faces away from the audience. He could be replaced by a drum machine (and often plays along with one), but the irony of letting a human do a machine's job is too rich to pass up. Guitarist and vocalist Jim Triplett stands motionless, staring at nothing in particular. He lets would-be rallying cries fizzle into statements of resignation. He swallows his words, and whatever comes out, comes out faint.
Unbeast the Leash hits the same emotional note for about 30 minutes, but a) That's part of the point, and b) It's a note that most bands aren't able to hit: the deep comfort of a true bummer. In that sense, they're Baltimore's shoegazers. They turn the garage-party aesthetic into a faded photograph the way My Bloody Valentine suffocated eros with a pillow. It's not that Unbeast the Leash is a triumph on the scale of Loveless by any stretch, but like that album, it sounds at once a part of its scene and completely contrary to it, the warm crash as the sugar wears off.
