I used to complain about the devolution of what gets tagged as emo, but to ignore all of what is dismissed as whiny mall-punk would be overlooking a few notable mutations. Presentation is now an essential part of the package-- apparently we need more theatrics, more mascara, and more "Brecht-punk." But if turning teen angst into class-A artifice is the name of the game, then the pAper chAse are in the accelerated class. Maybe dead playwrights do direct the Dresden Dolls, but the pAper chAse look to Eli Roth for inspiration. Their personal demons are actual demons. Their broken relationships are literally a matter of life and death.
If you thought them too indulgent and inward-looking before, this record is by no means a concession. The pAper chAse once reached for a faux-gothic atmosphere, mostly materialized by singer/principal songwriter/engineer John Congleton, to elevate their overwrought emo-pop. On Now You Are One of Us, those affectations have swallowed Congleton whole, and the melodies are ground out on guitars and detuned pianos like they're lucky to get out alive. It's so gleefully over-the-top that even the most absurd and token-tortured lyrics neatly circumvent being taken at face value. The only course of action left is to listen to the songs, and maybe pop some popcorn.
And if you're not buying any of that (hey, no hard feelings), know that Now You Are One of Us is relentlessly hooky. A little open space and a lot of ghostly wailing builds to something suspenseful on "Wait Until I Get My Hands on You", and "You Will Never Take Me Alive" is "Eleanor Rigby" sung by Charles Manson. The guitars are sparser but twice as effective, twisting over songs like "The Kids Will Grow Up to Be Assholes" as if they're impaled on a spike. Congleton wails through water-damaged microphones over splintered rhythms about (what else) women, pain, a bearhug from an armless brother, slow comfy screwing, and, like, ghosts and shit.
"At the End of the Leash" ends with one telling line: "I'll spend 40 more years moving the thermostat around." It could mean another half-feasible specter chilling Congleton's house, or maybe an apt detail of perpetual loneliness and boredom. It doesn't need to be sung three times, but it is, and it's nearly the perfect summation of the record: surprisingly evocative and delivered with a total, delectable lack of restraint.
