Rating: 4.4 / 10.0
When we first announced this album here on NLtS, I said it was only a matter of when – not if – I’d get sick of indie rock’s favourite one-trick pony. I’m speaking, of course, of Death Cab for Cutie. Well, it happened. This album has fallen quite flat, and is one of the most impressively unimpressive records released so far this year. No record thus far has been so emphatic about making no strong statement whatsoever. I thought Coldplay would win that award outright, but it looks like even they’re going to try their hand at making music that someone might give a damn about in fifty years. No such ambition here. Apparently, Gibbard et. al. will be satisfied to soundtrack the next season of
The Hills.
When Gibbard’s nasal tenor swooped in over the awkward tremolo guitars of “Bixby Canyon Bridge”, I realised how little I’d missed Death Cab. As he stammered his way through that same class of silly, angst-laden lyrics, I got nervous. And then, instead of leading into the shimmering hooky sort of indie pop I expected (I mean, come on, it’s Death Cab), it turned into some godawful grunge pound jam (think “Transatlanticism” on a bad acid trip) – where the dirty, distorted guitars and too-percussive drums supported a not-at-all-catchy-but-clearly-inspired-by-Built-to-Spill riff – that did this gross fade back into that original stilted melody to close out the track.
“I Will Possess Your Heart” definitely wins the “unnecessarily long intro” award. They tacked a seriously monotonous, four-minute self indulgence onto the beginning of a not-very-good pop song in hopes of dressing it up. It didn’t work. “Soul Meets Body” was no grand masterwork, but it had a great melody, and a hook that – love it or hate it – stuck with you. It accomplished its goal. “I Will Possess Your Heart” doesn’t really accomplish much of anything except make Ben Gibbard sound like one of those creepy graduate students that always hits on freshman girls at frat parties.
“I Will Possess Your Heart” is a story of a pathetic man who fantasizes about a girl who he could never have, but denies it on the basis of his non-existent scintillating personality and charm. Sounds tragically like a certain once-vital Seattle indie-rock band. This song is Death Cab’s foot-stomping insistence that they are good and relevant, dammit, and if you don’t think so, then you just don’t get it. At 30, I think it’s high time Ben Gibbard jettisoned the sexually frustrated, emotionally supersaturated pubescent male mindset.
Just as I was wondering who had shot and killed Death Cab’s love for pop music, “No Sunlight” came on. It’s a poppy number to be sure; ostensibly a purported return to “The Sound of Settling”…but it isn’t catchy. Like…at all. The melody isn’t well written, the chorus isn’t memorable, and the arrangement is at once crowded and banal. The song rides on the by now hackneyed juxtaposition between sad lyrics and happy music. But if you want that, go listen to an Eels record. At least E has something to be anxious about.
“Cath…” sacrifices musical sensibility for narrative. The song lacks direction; like the story (and hell, the whole record) itself, it seems to hover around a single idea without ever really settling into it. The result here, as on the rest of the album, is a generally unsatisfying listen.
The Wurlitzer tinged “Grapevine Fires” is by far the record’s best track. Harmonies are lush and pure, and the metric of the lyrics is arresting and smacks of what Death Cab probably should have become after
Transatlanticism. Gibbard’s lyrics are less grating and more mellow here; the tones more round than sharp, the melodic intervals more natural and suited to his voice. The arrangement falls in nicely around the Wurlitzer and the best drumming Jason McGerr is probably capable of.
No Death Cab record would be complete without the token asinine extended metaphor, right? Enter "Long Division". As if the lyrics weren't bad enough, the diminished chords in the chorus are an abomination; the tri-tones don’t add depth, they just sound like a mistake. And for God’s sake, he’s singing about fucking division. Nobody likes fucking division. I hate fucking division.
I’m not even going to talk about the end of “Pity and Fear”. I’m not going to dignify it with a substantive response.
You know, in general, Chris Walla’s production has - until now - been good enough to draw my attention from all the things about Death Cab that annoyed me; namely, the lame ass rhythm section, the lame ass lyrics with their contrived academic character, the woefully one-dimensional and formulaic songwriting, and Ben Gibbard. But on
Narrow Stairs, the production brings all these faults to the foreground. The production drowns potentially good ideas and leaves bare all the worst melodies and hooks, for all to revel in their mediocrity.
Clearly though, it’s not all Walla’s fault. This production style wouldn't be so bad if the hooks and melodies were worth a damn. The attention to melody that marked DCFC’s previous releases is completely lost on this LP. In their desire to experiment, they have abandoned the last thing that made them relevant: their pop sensibility. I’m no huge Death Cab fan, but whenever I listen to their previous work, I can’t help but hum it later. Not so with this record.
Despite all these flaws,
Narrow Stairs is a record that is very difficult to outright pan. It takes no risks whatsoever, so it can’t really fall completely flat on its face. This is yet another frustratingly bland effort from a band that seems to dig deeper into its comfort zone with every release. There is a flash of what might be brilliance (or maybe just dumb luck) - "Grapevine Fires" - on a record that is invincible in its mediocrity. This record is evidence that Death Cab has precious little more to offer the music world unless they take a real risk.
-PTC
