For a band that hasn’t existed as long as
the Dubya administration, Head of Femur has carved out quite a
dominion. The founding members, vocalist/guitarist Matt Focht,
keyboardist/drummer Ben Armstrong, and guitarist/bassist Mike
Elsener — all Nebraskans who relocated to Chicago —
formed the prog-pop outfit in late 2001, while their previous
group, Pablo’s Triangle, was on hiatus. All three men already
had distinguished résumés: Focht played drums for
Bright Eyes, and Armstrong and Elsener were in Commander Venus and
Solar Wind, respectively. HoF’s 2003 début, Ringodom or Proctor,
generated considerable critical buzz, and the group opened a series
of shows for Wilco earlier this year. In the time that most bands
take to set up a merch table, HoF has grown from a trio to an octet
to a miniorchestra: Hysterical Stars, HoF’s sophomore effort, boasts a
whopping 28 musicians, including members of the Sea and Cake,
Hella, the Flying Luttenbachers, and (just to keep it gangsta) the
Glenn Miller Orchestra. If you’re playing the Kevin Bacon
game, Indie-Rock Edition, HoF is a mere degree or two of separation
from pretty much any scenester you could name.
Like Ringodom or
Proctor, Hysterical
Stars is unapologetically,
unremittingly quirky. Almost every song is suitelike, teeming with
distinct parts and wildly incongruous instrumentation that, despite
all odds, usually works. Calling it ambitious is like calling Bill
Gates well-to-do. For the most part, this embarrassment of riches
proves unembarrassing. Despite the abundance of trumpets,
harmonicas, English and French horns, saxes, harps, glockenspiels,
cellos, flutes, piccolos, and so on, the songs are so carefully
constructed, so sensitively executed that they can support the
weight. Granted, the sheer multiplicity of it all can be a bit
nerve-wracking at times — “Easy Street” careers
from jerky second-wave ska to chamber-orchestra classical to
Dixieland jazz to mariachi, and “The Sausage Canoe” is
as silly as its title — but when HoF hits a groove, as on the rapturous anthem “Song for
Richard Manuel,” the results are breathtaking.
The Secret
Migration, the sixth album from Mercury
Rev, is probably the psych-rock veterans’ prettiest,
happiest, and most accessible venture, which, in the minds of too
many Rev devotees, equals heresy. It’s too bad, because if
any band deserves a sabbatical from controversy, it’s Mercury
Rev. Since forming at the University of Buffalo in 1989, the hugely
influential but sadly underrated group has weathered all the slings
and arrows of outrageous indie fortune: the dissolution of its
first label, multiple arrests on drug and weapons charges, the
acrimonious departure of its original singer, nervous breakdowns,
airplane fights involving flatware, forcible ejection from
Lollapalooza’s second stage, and the widespread ingratitude
of its native country (contrary to popular opinion and the fervent
wishes of Mojo magazine staffers, the Rev is and always has been
North American).
Unlike its predecessors, Migration was recorded at the
band’s home studio in the Catskill Mountains. The rural
setting and unhurried production schedule no doubt contributed to
the CD’s lushly pastoral sound and overtly romantic spirit.
The bleak, paranoiac tone of previous efforts is completely absent
here; in its place are tender odes to domestic bliss and the
glories of the natural world. Lyrically, these hippy epithalamia
can seem a bit fey and Renaissance Faire at times, especially if
you object on principle to dragonflies, morning stars, and dark
country brides named Lorelai who ride white horses through black
forests. Still, only a beauty-immune jerk could take issue with the
music itself, which is grand, majestic, and sumptuous, a perfect
marriage of experimental electronics and shimmering shoegazer pop.
This article appears in May 26 – Jun 1, 2005.
