Portland, Ore.'s the Standard didn't seek marginalization so much as have that dubious status foisted upon them. Four albums on three different labels is one sure way to stifle momentum. And now a fifth release, Swimmer, has appeared on yet another label (this time self-released) following no small amount of wrangling when the label originally set to release it (V2) went under and the band was forced to make other arrangements. While the Standard have been busy label hopping, their gradual evolution and improvement have been somewhat lost in the shuffle.
Granted, a nearly Google-proof name hasn't helped, but going by Swimmer, it's safe to assume that obscurity is not one of the group's objectives. The disc's aim-for-the-stars effort makes abundantly clear. Equally arty, anthemic, and fashionably agitated, the album is the kind of big statement one might expect from an act ill at ease with the world around it and compelled to translate those anxieties into something as banal as rock music. Indeed, Tim Putnam's world-weary vocals quiver and quake like he's bearing the weight of the universe on his shoulders, while the songs themselves are awash with evocative piano, spooky guitars, and the occasional taste of chilly keyboards, all intended to convey maximum menace with minimal muss.
Yet also absent is some necessary muscle. For all the ominous sound and fury, there's not much here to actually bite into, and each rave-up is ultimately rather unremarkable. Further, while songs such as "Through the Walls", "Lines", and "Hotel" hit all the right notes, that isn't the same thing as hitting your own. The familiar tension and release arrangements belie too much button-pushing shorthand. It's as if the Standard spent some of their studio-bound downtime analyzing such bigger acts as, say, Muse, trying to figure out how to port a similarly atmospheric alt-pop-prog sound to an indie band on a budget.
While every last minute of Swimmer screams "major," its reach ultimately exceeds its grasp, leaving it yet another minor-key and melancholy reminder that moodiness is no substitute for meaning. Indeed, with so many other bands aiming for similar art-rock uneasiness, the album's problem is familiar: it's hindered by a sort of 21st century ennui fatigue, its grey-day grandiosity a dime a dozen when woe-is-me is the default expression.
