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They may hail from balmy Miami, but the Postmarks
certainly have a yen for the changing seasons. Their debut full-length
boasts such climatologically perverse song titles as “Summers Never
Seem to Last,” “Looks Like Rain,” and “Winter
Spring Summer Fall” — concepts that are as far removed from
most Floridians’ experience as thermal underwear and salt trucks.
Wouldn’t it make more sense for these Sunshine Staters to sing about
skin cancer and hurricanes? Sorry, Charlie, but no. Despite the obsolete
assumptions of rap-magazine editors, regionalism — at least the kind
that’s defined by geography — is dead. If television
didn’t kill it, the Internet did, and MySpace is merely scattering
its cremains. Welcome to Notropolis, where Texans can ape Thom Yorke, where
Irish lassies can impersonate honky-tonk angels, and where the Postmarks
can pretend that it’s April in Paris or autumn in Vermont. Besides, as pathetic fallacies go, cooler conditions
suit the Postmarks’ wistful, evanescent sound a lot better than the
sultry climate of their native habitat ever could.
Songwriter/multiinstrumentalist Christopher Moll and the equally versatile
Jonathan Wilkins clearly adore the meticulous orchestrations of Brian
Wilson, Van Dyke Parks, and Burt Bacharach; younger chamber-pop disciples
Jon Brion and, in particular, the High Llamas’ Sean O’Hagan are
also relevant touchstones. Augmented by a dozen-or-so guest musicians,
including Andy Chase (of Ivy and Tahiti 80), these 11 miniconcerti are
lovingly crafted, peppered with sophisticated polyrhythms and drizzled with
cornets and clarinets, harpsichords and violas, flutes and vibraphones
— in sum, all the makings of a teenage symphony to God. Factor in chanteuse Tim Yehezkely (yes, she’s a
woman), whose small, sweet, uninflected warble resembles that of Gallic
phenom Keren Ann, and you’ve got yourself a regular swoonfest.
Although Yehezkely’s lyrics are a tad precious in places, encumbered
by elaborate metaphors and groan-worthy puns, the purity of her voice
usually redeems them. When it doesn’t, well, that’s where the
top-notch accompaniment comes in handy: a twinge of pedal-steel twang that
sneaks into a somber waltz, a volley of bells that follows a crazy theremin
interlude, a dizzy organ vamp that swooshes in from nowhere. Standout
tracks such as the sprightly, toy-piano-driven “Goodbye” and
the incongruously jaunty, string-drenched “Let Go” could easily
be sung in pig Latin or Esperanto and they’d be just as lovely.
Prototypes, a Parisian trio that specializes in giddy
electropunk and dirty throb-pop, dropped its American debut last summer,
but somehow I missed it, and I suspect that most of you did, too. Tant pis, hein? Mais non! That’s
why January, also known as drought month, exists: so that those of us who
track new releases get the chance to play catch-up. In any case,
there’s something deliciously subversive about listening to such
blatantly summery music in the dead of winter; it’s like taking the
top down on your mental convertible. Although Prototypes isn’t as original as its
moniker implies — at least not if you’ve ever heard Chicks on
Speed and Stereo Total — it’s a very good time regardless.
Singer/snarler Isabelle Le Doussal looks a little like Karen O of the Yeah
Yeah Yeahs, and her voice has a similar lusty insolence;
bassist/keyboardist Stéphane Bodin and guitarist François
Marché extract every possible drop of energy from hoary three-chord
progressions and beat-on-the-brat beats. To say that they’re a
mash-up made flesh does them no great disservice. From the bristling
post-punk of “Un Brin de Fierté” to the
Buzzcocks-meets-Blondie fuzz-bomb of “Danse sur la Merde” to
the Peaches-esque burlesque of “Tir aux Pigeons,” the
Prototypes prove that you don’t have to be first to be fun.
Contact René
Spencer Saller at rssaller@core.com
This article appears in Jan 18-24, 2007.
