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Are the foppish dandies of the Ladybug Transistor perpetrating the
ultimate in indie-rock aw-shucks smarminess? Or do their winsome
melodies and incredibly un-Brooklyn-like pastoral instrumentation
make for a superb scenic traipse through a most beautiful musical
idyll? Sometimes it's hard to tell. Such consternation in the decision-making process could, of course,
lead thoughts back to me, and various wonts as
dynamic-rock-journalist (or what have you). It could point to an
inability to commit, or even — yes! — a cynicism for
cynicism itself. If this all sounds a little bit self-consumed and/or
self-reflexive, well, records as deliberately, unforgivingly,
swimmingly nice as this provoke that kind of reaction. Ditching some of the more Cali-like, pop-like and psych-like
vestments of past longplayers, Argyle Heir finds the
quartet-cum-sextet making the most medieval indie-rock this side of
dungeon-dancing Helium honcho Mary Timony. However, instead of
resonating with generations of working-class oppression, or calling
to mind days of cleaner air and dirtier fingernails, the Ladybug
Transistor's work is all natty and neato and
gee-thanks-for-comin'-round, carefully coifed and dressed in dapper
threads, smoking a slim cheroot out the corner of a smirking
art-student mouth.
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