All right, I'll bite. What does the PA stand for? Preppie Anarchist? Pretentious Asshole? Paranoid Agoraphobic? Popular Arboretum? Partially Anesthetized? Physician's Assistant?
Wrong. The PA only stands for Pennsylvania, a rather dull reason to put mysterious letters behind one's name. Not that Pennsylvania is a dull state. Why, without Pennsylvania, we wouldn't have Rolling Rock, the Phillies (hands down, the best logo font in sports), and the Constitution. And even though Pennsylvania's the only state in which I've ever received a speeding ticket, I don't hold a grudge.
That may change, however, if I have to keep listening to Matt Pond PA's The Green Fury. The Green Fury = ungood. I don't like it. Boo.
The setup behind MPPA is not innately flawed: a melancholy singer/songwriter fleshing out his songs with soaring orchestral arrangements. Some call it chamber-pop, and bands like the Flaming Lips or Mercury Rev pull it off to great effect. Matt Pond PA, on the other hand, is a bit heavy on the chamber and way too light on the pop (not to mention light on the Dave Fridmann, but that can't be helped). Rather than adding depth and creativity, the various strings, horns, keyboards, and vibraphones are all seemingly used to disguise the tepid songs within-- an extravagantly wrapped Christmas present with socks and underwear inside.
The blame, therefore, would have to fall squarely on bandleader/songwriter Pond's slumped shoulders. Pond seems to have a knack for writing languid, generic tracks that have all the pop of soggy Rice Krispies. It all depends on your definition, though. If "pop" for you means instantly catchy, hummable tunes, you certainly won't find it here. But if "pop" means boring verse-chorus-verse song structure, hey, Matt has you covered. As for covering, I'll do my own with a blanket and this CD.
Worst of all, there's the more-than-passing resemblance Pond's voice bears to mid-90's frat-house poet Adam Duritz. Pond shares Duritz's habit for introspective warbling, with his vocals cracking oh-so-dramatically in the upper registers. Once you realize this similarity, there's really no going back. The unsurprising result is a textbook case of excessive emoting. Throw in Pond's heavy-handed way with a lyric, and I'm inclined to think him and Duritz are the same person until proven otherwise.
Without Pond's tremulous yearning, a handful of the songs ("Measure 3," "Promise the Bite") might have been enjoyable in an "aging indie rocker sitting on the porch with a glass of Merlot and a David Foster Wallace novel" sort of way. Still, the many, many string parts don't do anything on The Green Fury you haven't heard a hundred times before, even if they are well-executed from a technical standpoint. Other instruments aren't so lucky, though: the french horn solo of "Jefferson" will surely make Pitchfork's list of Worst French Horn Solos Ever (coming soon!) and I think the last of my patience with the vibraphone was worn down by the record's sixth track.
I suppose there are a few other nice things I can say about The Green Fury. The album cover has a nice green-and-yellow plaid pattern on it, for instance, that I wouldn't mind owning in couch or pants form. I'll award the band bonus points for cleverly releasing a preview EP last year called This is Not the Green Fury. And someday, I may likely use Matt Pond PA as proof in an argument over whether independent music is inherently better than major label releases. But other than that, Matt Pond PA is just an easy target for wise-ass negative blurbs. What do you like better: "No, Mr. Pond, I expect you to die!!!" or "This Pond could use a good de-scumming!!!"?
