It's my second week writing for Pitchfork, and already I've been tempted by corruption. No, record companies aren't throwing cash, drugs and boy-toys at me in exchange for favorable reviews. It's something far more seductive: laziness.
The Aislers Set's latest album, The Last Match, comes with not one, but three Pitchfork-ready review paragraphs printed on the back cover. Each is ostensibly about the band, although none of them actually describe its music. The first goes the pretentious route, referencing 17th century painters and European travel, the second is a sentimental description of "late night obsessive scrawls and early morning echoes of kisses curling around the dawn," and the last is a self-consciously literary account of minutiae like "a crushed soda can is beneath my foot, it's rusted red a dried wound on the frosted grey."
It would be only too easy to repeat one of these verbatim, and pretend to be more arty, wussy, or boring than I actually am. Unfortunately, I'd be forced to imply that The Last Match is arty, wussy or boring, and none of those things happen to be true.
Amy Linton's songs are certainly well-crafted, but they aren't so abstract that allusions to other art forms are necessary to describe them. Musical reference points include '60s icons like Phil Spector, who originated the Set's girl-groupy multi-tracked harmonies, or a more proficient take on the fuzzed-out shambly pop of mid-to-late '80s groups like the Black Tambourine that the Aislers Set so clearly inspired.
The three songs written by Wyatt Cusack, also a member of the more rocking Trackstar, are the most twee of the bunch, particularly since Cusack's fey vocals bear an uncannily resemblance to those of Belle and Sebastian's Stuart Murdoch. Linton, on the other hand, knows how to rock, as she proved in her mid-'90s group, Henry's Dress, which fused shoegazer shimmer with mod-rock. She's since forsaken the My Bloody Valentine influence, but The Last Match still packs a mod punch, particularly on "The Way to Market Station" and "Been Hiding."
The Aislers Set don't slack on keeping things interesting, either. Their arrangements feature liberal doses of organ, hand claps, and occasional brass flourishes. Linton's lyrics capture the highs and lows of being a musically literate urbanite, throwing out lines like, "I could be your sudden let's go out/ Could be your favorite bar in town," and a desperate plea to the frontman of British cult legends the Television Personalities, "Please help me, Dan Treacy."
Normally, I'm not one to resist assistance, even of the unsolicited variety. For the Aislers Set, however, I feel compelled to put forth the effort myself.
