By now, many of you may well be dubious of yet another band intent on firebombing music publications with a barrage of unavoidable stock post-punk reference points. To those whose eyes are still bleary from the sting of countless hasty Joy Division allusions in the past few years, I offer a simple caveat: For all intents and purposes, Prosaics are being billed as the next Interpol. Whether or not the comparison is valid is debatable, but Matador's press unit hasn't exactly underplayed the connection: "It's rare that we find someone who captures our imaginations the same way our established faves have. Well, not without wanting millions of dollars." Playful tone aside, the underlying motivations here are clear.
The real problem with Aghast Agape, Prosaics' debut EP (originally released stateside by Dim Mak), is that the band doesn't offer any material that might diffuse accusations of straightforward stylistic photocopying. Their ethereal, angular post-punk replication is competent but anonymous, and their lyrics are epigrammatic bordering on cryptic, serving as ideal, nondescript verbal placeholders. Even their back story is pretty tepid: Two guys hang out in a NYC apt., jam a bit, hire drummer. The "Behind the Music" nadir of this scenario involves the mishandling of a Carl Thompson bass at the hands of a prospective band member. Compelling mythology it isn't, but appropriate for the album's relative lack of originality.
Opener "Teeth" begins with a noisy guitar attack false start before smoothly transitioning into more pristine, driving minor key pop. The track is steeped in reverb-heavy production distantly reminiscent of early Echo and the Bunnymen, punctuated with jangling guitar lines and grounded by soaring vocal melodies by singer/guitarist Andy Comer, who wallows in affected Anglophiliac misery. The song's emotive, cryptic hook ("We preach wine/ And drink water") establishes a pattern of passionately belted oblique phrases used for choruses on nearly every track.
Other tracks reveal more contemporary influences. "Failure" utilizes upbeat Franz Ferdinand-style pop for its verses, layering on wailing backing vocals for another impenetrable couplet/chorus ("Acquaintances/ Aghast agape"). "Now the Shadow of the Column" resembles Interpol gone power-pop, with a gritty guitar pattern overlaying a pulsating bassline until the decked-out, synth choir-spiked chorus. "Tenants" is a brief but redeeming conclusion. The band focuses their energy into tighter production and stronger melodic hooks-- including their best chorus-- grounded by William Kuehn's dynamic, machine-gunned drumming.
The album isn't without its moments, but nothing about Aghast Agape distinguishes Prosaics from the growing mass of post-punk revivalists cluttering the indie landscape. The band misses the core appeal of much of the music that inspires the album: Comer has studied Ian Curtis' despondency, but sacrifices his urgency and directness for clumsy stabs at abstruse poetry; he evokes Morrissey's deprecating anguish without the counterbalancing wit. The music is pleasant but fleeting, trapped between loving homage and faceless emulation. Aghast Agape establishes a stifling formula, making the band's name a bit too ironic for comfort.
