Even as he returned to the stage for high-profile reunion gigs with Mission of Burma, the most pleasant surprise from Clint Conley has been the debut of his own band Consonant, which slipped into Boston last summer and has played a comparative handful of gigs-- almost as few as the Burma reunion, but in more intimate clubs. A favorite on many end of the year lists (including mine), Consonant's self-titled first record was nevertheless so unassuming, such a straight-up indie rock guitar record, that you could spin it again and again and completely overlook how special it was.
Not much has changed on the band's second release: in fact, as satisfying as it is, it's hard not to judge it side-by-side with their debut. Conley has kept the band together-- Chris Brokaw (Come, Codeine) on the other guitar, Winston Braman (Fuzzy) on bass, and Matt Kadane (Bedhead, The New Year) on drums fill out what amounts to an indie rock all-star quartet, with none of the showcasing that could imply. The most obvious difference is that Love and Affliction starts with a mood instead of a hook. The first disc demanded your attention with those perfect first few notes of "Blissful", and Consonant only took a more sprawling route on a couple of songs, like "What a Body Could Do".
This album cuts right to the building and cresting volume of "Little Murders", as Conley's and Brokaw's guitars roar like guys tuning their Mustangs in adjacent driveways. And then there's Conley's voice, lacking the machismo of his earlier band, sounding even more fragile here than on Consonant's debut. Conley can sound open and damaged, not unlike Robert Wyatt, but on "Cry" I could picture him emulating the fierce resistance of Kristin Hersh; the lyrics, mostly written by Holly Anderson, bring in an even more feminine tone. The cussedness of their earlier lyrics has gotten stern and lonely, the "hey, I'm in a band again!" ebullience turning into something darker.
The raw underproduction helps each track blend into the next, riding a constant flow of distorted guitars. But it also obscures the details. Harmonies are buried in a chorus, guitars fade away in the middle of a ballad: any time the band gets too quiet, they risk disappearing completely. That recording style makes them sound even more like a "guitar band," and it's perfect for anyone who sentimentally prefers a band that sounds like they're playing in your basement-- while you're upstairs.
The only real criticism is that the moodiness takes a toll on the songwriting: while there ain't a weak track, you won't find the obvious pinnacles or ecstatic Kinks-like guitar pop. The album's catchiest track, "Mysteries of the Holiday Camp", propels Conley's funny tour-in-England anecdotes, but the graceful hook on "She's Driving Fast" just cribs from "(There Is a Rose In) Spanish Harlem". For the rest of the album, the strongest tracks are the ones that bear monster power riffs-- like "Blue Story", with its incongruous, "We are the priests of the temple of Syrinx"-like imagery, or "Dumb Joy", which ebbs and flows, angry and wistful, as Conley bares himself through break-ups.
Where Consonant's first record was so unexpectedly rewarding, this one's "just" a strong follow-up. But there's also no doubt the band has grown, and that Conley has made a fair exchange of accessibility for honest, emotional power. After you've heard the debut, Love and Affliction comes strongly recommended: it would, after all, be a mistake to take these guys for granted.
