Albums by this artist

Satanic Panic In The Attic (2004)

The Gay Parade (1999)

Of Montreal

Satanic Panic In The Attic

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» MARK T.R. DONOHUE | STAFF WRITER

Of Montreal Satanic Panic In The Attic Polyvinyl, 2004 RiYL: Elephant 6 bands, Brian Wilson

I've been accused recently of being unfairly unreceptive to new music. I really believe, Damien Rice notwithstanding, that we're in a bit of a lull for intelligent underground rock, waiting for the Next New Thing, maybe so rapturously that we've been quick to crown bands that are mediocre (The Shins) to fuckin' terrible (Death Cab For Cutie) our new indie kings. Nature abhors a vacuum, but if you'll excuse the weak pun, a lot of these new bands really suck.

So in good faith, I tried to like Of Montreal's Satanic Panic In The Attic. They have been around for a while -- press materials indicate this is their sixth full-length. Makes sense, as one spin of Satanic clearly reveals that Of Montreal are at least three indie subfads too late.

Remember the Elephant 6 collective? All those twee little bands with Brian Wilson fetishes and fey male frontmen dripping with the kind of misplaced sincerity only a massive overestimation of your own abilities can bring? Whatever happened to The Apples In Stereo and Neutral Milk Hotel anyway? Funny that the least-heralded of all those groups, Beulah, has been the only one to survive its press clippings and mature into a good rock band. Of Montreal, as I mentioned, is on its sixth album. If they were ever going to be any good, it would have happened by now.

"Disconnect The Dots" starts the album off in likable enough fashion with a Stereolab-esque locked groove and an interesting, proficient bass lick. Unfortunately, the song only has one line, and its unvarying repetition (and use of the word "poppet," ew, party foul) makes the tune unbearable by the second verse. "Lysergic Bliss" brightens things up a bit; it's the album's best track, with a marvelous four-part harmony section and lyrics buried enough in the swirling guitars and keyboards to ignore. That's as good as it gets, as the album goes on to feature no fewer than five songs with alliterative titles. What is this, "Blue's Clues?"

"City Bird" is notable for its extreme and not at all subtle jack of both the sound and central imagery of Macca's "Blackbird." "Chrissie Kiss The Corpse" is an incredibly tasteless little pop ditty about necrophilia. "Your Magic Is Working" is a dire, unironic love song that could have been performed by The Lovin' Spoonful. The electro touches of the first two songs are completely abandoned henceforth, and the added clarity the lighter production gives the vocals is totally unwanted.

Also, absent the keyboard touches you start to realize that scads of these songs share the same basic chord progressions and melodies, not to mention the exact same tempo. I had to check a few times to see if the player was stuck on repeat. It's not completely dire all the way through, however. "My British Tour Diary" is rather witty, with its mention of the "worst techno music in the world," and "How Lester Lost His Wife" actually adds a little rock juice to the proceedings, albeit nine tracks too late.

It's too bad there isn't a Commissioner of Indie. This band, like the Expos who hail from their namesake city, deserves to be contracted. Precious resources are being wasted while we could be out searching for the Next New Thing.

MARK T.R. DONOHUE | Mark T.R. Donohue is a prolific freelance writer whose areas of expertise include Rockies baseball, video games, genre television, English soccer, and pub rock. He lives in Colorado, where he cultivates the largest and creepiest private collection of Alyson Hannigan memorabilia in the Mountain West.