Tigers Jaw claim to be “equal parts Fleetwood Mac and Brand New”, and what’s surprising is that the claim's true on multiple levels. To a certain extent, Stevie Nicks and Lindsey Buckingham are raging inside of Charmer, the Scranton band’s fourth album—Adam McIlwee, Brianna Collins and Ben Walsh’s harmonies have a glassy, disengaged quality and they’re situated amidst turbulent emotions and turbid guitars. But “equal parts Fleetwood Mac and Brand New” is even more accurate in describing what it was like to be in Tigers Jaw during its recording—like the latter, they're transitioning out of pop-punk and emo into straight-up indie rock, and the entire band was split into Rumours-esque factions while they made the album.
But while three of the five members decided to quit before Charmer was recorded, they did everyone a solid by finishing the album as a parting gift—which possibly explains how Charmer still comes off like a smooth segue into a new incarnation of the band rather than a sudden, painful break or an awkward growth spurt. Though Tigers Jaw have been around for nearly a decade, remaining members Collins and Walsh just recently graduated college, the standard forum where pop-punk kids are not only expected to discover more “mature” and credible sources of independent rock music, but to completely sever themselves from their past. Fortunately, as with their Keystone State neighbors in Beach Slang, Balance and Composure, and Title Fight, Tigers Jaw are beating indie rock lifers at their own game by maintaining the appealing structural songwriting aspects of their roots—melodic quality control, instrumental economy, and the belief this stuff should be MTV-friendly even if that forum isn’t going anywhere near bands like them.
True, you’ve probably heard the descending jangle progression of “Cool” and the minor key power chord riff of “Nervous Kids” hundreds of times in the past year alone, but rarely presented in a manner where the vocals are put so clearly to the fore, presented as a lead instrument rather than something custodially glommed onto fuzzy guitars. Beyond that, Tigers Jaw use sneaky ways to exhibit their pop smarts. Many of Charmer’s songs work the same riff throughout their entirety, with only small variations throughout, maybe a slight chord inversion or a harmonized lead riff or Collins’ pencil-thin synth colorings. But that one riff is usually so sturdy and easy to build off of, the end result is a song with all hook; while the glowing chorus of “Hum” only appears once, it’s more of a resolution than a climax.
Those are the aspects of the album that take after the positive connotations of “charmer”: subtly ingratiating, enjoyable in a low-key kind of way. But Tigers Jaw turn Charmer into something more resonant by teasing out the negative connotations of its title: manipulative, emotionally callow, inauthentic. To put it bluntly, there isn’t a single nice person populating Tigers Jaw’s lyrics, and their varying exhibitions of misanthropic behavior are explained in the opener’s chorus: “It’s a cruel world, but it’s cool.”
It could be read two ways; McIlwee is either conceding to cynicism as a natural state or reveling in it. My guess is the latter, judging from his deadpan disdain when delivering lines like “Don’t you wanna be my perfect bae instead?” and ”I’m out in California now/ And Ari gave me his new car/ And all the girls are so champagne.” Of course, none of Charmer should be taken as an endorsementof that kind of attitude, just a depiction of it. People primarily motivated by their sexual desires and loneliness can be self-absorbed and not all that concerned with their effects on other people. It happens, and it’s not like anyone onCharmer seems happy about it, as its dreary emotional state can be too convincingly mirrored by the music at times. However, those lulls end up creating the simmering tension that gets relieved on “Slow Come On” by a flurry of drum rolls and McIlwee’s vocals just nearing a scream. It’s a chilling example of an asshole revealing his true colors, telling someone who doesn’t turn him on about the kind of person who does—“I don’t even care how mean they are/ So I don't ever take your calls.”
When McIlwee yells, “Why am I so cruel?” towards the end, it’s about as close as he gets to a confession or culpability, acknowledging himself as a man who wants the ones he can’t have, rejects the ones he can and internalizes the resulting loneliness as some kind of perverse pleasure. When his affections are returned, the other is seen as compromised for having sunk to his level. Closer “What Would You Do” is a total outlier, detailing a sad, codependent hookup over lumbering funk like a vintage Afghan Whigs track, while “Frame You” is just as candid—“You couldn’t leave me alone/ Because I was a wreck and you were the savior type.”
All of which makes lead single “Hum” very misleading in retrospect. For one thing, it’s the sole track where Collins takes the lead. Also, when she sings, “You left a permanent scar”, the unforgettable reminiscences of basement shows and long walks home sound like positive nostalgia, or at least a romantic thought amidst the absorbing and near-constant anti-romanticism. Though it’s laced with "Twin Peaks" references, Charmer ends up sounding more influenced by another example of uber-90s television—the one where people stop being polite and start getting real.
