Though it can be hard recall amid the black tie arena shows, papier-mâché puppetry, and red carpet appearances that comprise their universe today, Arcade Fire were once a highly volatile, sometimes violent band. In their pre-Funeral genesis, the group projected a startling intensity that often left their hands bloodied and bodies bruised; those motorcycle helmets you see in old concert photos weren’t so much costume props as necessary protective gear for a band prone to using their own heads as auxiliary drum kits. And in the middle of the melee you’d often find Will Butler, younger brother of lead singer Win, bearing the mischievous grin of a corrupted choir boy. As a utility-player multi-instrumentalist, Will’s musical presence isn’t always easy to parse from Arcade Fire’s orchestro-rock onslaught. But onstage, he’s the physical embodiment of the band’s music—deceptively mild-mannered, yet capable of going off without warning. Not surprisingly, his debut solo album makes a virtue of that instability.
Given that Arcade Fire’s last album, 2013’s Reflektor, boasted a rollout strategy more carefully plotted than most military operations, Policy feels very much like an attempt to recapture some of the happy-accidental spontaneity that defined the band’s early years. Where most of Arcade Fire’s extracurricular pursuits—be it Richard Reed Parry’s Bell Orchestre, Sarah Neufeld’s releases on Constellation Records, or the Oscar-nominated score for Spike Jonze’s Her—have served as avant-garde antidotes to the band’s anthemic grandeur, Policy revels in the early rock'n'roll and punk influences that have become an increasingly obscured cornerstone of the band’s sound (think: "(Antichrist Television Blues)", "Month of May", or the sock-hop denouement of "Wake Up"). Recorded at New York’s hallowed Electric Lady Studios, this determinedly off-the-cuff album is nostalgic in sound, but endearingly off-kilter in spirit.
As a lead vocalist, Will sounds exactly as you would expect—i.e., like Win Butler’s wiseacre little brother—and though he’s recently shown an interest in current events, his lovelorn lyrical concerns here are several pounds less weighty than Arcade Fire’s conceptual statements about God and country. (When Jesus does enter the picture—via the folky, Westerbergian power-pop of "Son of God"—it’s merely to be gently blasphemed.) At its most inspired, Policy resembles a screwball musical adaptation of John Lennon’s lost weekend. Rave-ups like "Take My Side", "What I Want", and "Witness" tumble out with infectiously inebriated energy, their charging choruses teetering on the brink like runaway trains. The bacchanalia is compounded by sloppy piano stabs and knowingly cornball come-ons that would make Harry Nilsson flash a thumbs up while face down in puke. (To wit: "If you come and take my hand/ I will buy you a pony/ We can cook it for supper/ I know a great recipe for pony macaroni.")
As Butler recently explained to Pitchfork’s Evan Minsker, Policy is intended to reflect his omnivorous musical taste, but, as the album rolls on, the difference between cunning eclecticism and undercooked experimentalism grows stark. Policy's highlights maintain a precarious balance between classicism and cataclysm, but the album often tips too far in either direction: the dirgey boombox disco of "Something’s Coming" and the cheap-sunglasses new wave of "Anna" suggest an alternate universe where Arcade Fire couldn’t afford James Murphy’s producer fee, while "Sing to Me" and "Finish What I Started" are sullen piano ballads that Butler's restrained vocals can't invest with the necessary gravitas. "Someone please, finish what I started," he sings on the latter song, "I tried my best, but my best was half-hearted." It doubles as an uncomfortably on-the-nose diagnosis of the album itself.
