Avenue D might have just gone ahead and called the record Cunt, but that'd be all 2001 electro-sleazy; the teeny euphemism suits this group better. It's still up in the air why Fannypack ever got free-associated with NYC's willfully trashy hipster subcult in the first place, not when they were so clearly something else. Cartoon booty-bass, day-glo club squeakers, drop-rolling L'Trimm revivalism: Novelty hit or not, the stuff had enough meat to cross casually from Manhattan party kids to hip-hop radio play. Who doesn't get a kick out of teenage girls kicking beautifully bratty schoolyard rhymes? It's like Daphne and Celeste without the irony-- and with beats that once bounced like nothing else around.
It wasn't a formula anyone expected them to repeat, and they're wise not to try. It's 2005, you know, and the last member of the crew is legal now: With this second album, they're ready to take direction from Tyra Banks and get "fierce." The transition from happy teenage taunts to cursing and sex talk was probably inevitable, and quality-wise, it's a wash. It's with the sound-- as provided by producers Matt Goias and Fancy-- that you get your payoff.
No more bubbly electroid jump here; at its most distinctive, this record unleashes rhythm-happy stomps that kick and clap like black-college step routines. "Keep it Up", "Feet and Hands", and "Pump It" leaven their beats with crowd cheers, whistles, hand-claps, marching drums, even sneaker squeaks; for indie kids, this may be as good as the high school gym will ever sound. Something about that pep-squad energy brings out the old Fannypack, too. With these cuts, it's still all about drawers of broken cellphones and time-tested taunts like "you're gonna pump my gas someday."
The space around that gets more adult-serious, taking stabs at all the relevant radio staples: Say, sub-Missy r&b; crooning for "On My Lap" (that one's about male strippers), or sub-Missy Diwali-styled riddim on "Fire Fire", which brings in Jamaican singer/toaster Mr. Vegas to cover the hook. Brooklyn ode "Seven One Eight" whips out dusty blues samples for an odd, clanky strut. And then, swinging in from the complete opposite direction, there's "You Gotta Know"-- an unexpectedly Off the Wall roller-disco jam that just might be the best thing this group's ever done.
The results don't have much on the pure cartoon charm of Fannypack's debut, and in spots they're left in a disappointing limbo-- wanting to compete on equal, adult terms with the tracks on the radio, but way too adorable and idiosyncratic to pull it off. We'll call them growing pains, though; getting too excited about the bratty day-glo remnants that shine through here may be the equivalent of wanting your daughter to stay prepubescent for all eternity. No, this stuff has got some thrills of its own, with male strippers right up among them. And if you happen to be the main character in an unexpected prequel to Bring It On, well: You can skip the drive down to Compton, and steal your step-step cheer routines right here.
