I tried hard. I really did. I wanted to love the spasmodic slop that
beady-eyed journos and tripped-out hipster club kids swoon over. I wanted
to get all googly-eyed with my girlfriend while we let the rhythm hit us
all the way into 2009. I wanted to learn the art of the glow stick and
dazzle onlookers with my propeller-armed magnificence. I wanted to hear the
music, grasp the irony, then offer a wry nod and a sly grin to the club
gods. I wanted to giggle after coming to terms with my inherent New
York-ness, a virtue that lets me "get it." I wanted to convulse,
voluntarily, without pretension, only fun flagellation (fun being the
operative and most deceiving word). And I wanted a brief Ecstasy binge, for
good, moral measure. I wanted it all. But it was not to be. I remain
unmoved.
Alas, I am but a measly record reviewer forced to attack dance albums with
a worn set of headphones and no soul. There was no, nor will there be any, shimmying, slinking, shaking, rocking, funking or quaking. There was, however, boredom.
The production duo of Tim Goldsworthy and James Murphy comprise The DFA, and
their second compilation of danceable, occasionally electrifying, but mostly
annoying post-dance-punk (multi-hyphens!) is a sprawling, overlong
treat for people who dig this stuff. Obviously, I am not one of their
acolytes. I recognize the complex, throbbing pulse that these men draw out
of simple sounds and ideas. Pluck the bass with this finger! Keyboard stab
right about now! Synth slides up and down! I also understand the reasonably
inspired meta shrift of their music. This is not bad music, per se. But it
kind of makes me want to vomit and/or go to sleep.
It's not all bad, and perhaps I've drawn my saber a bit too abruptly (my heart tells me I haven't, though). The sound is absolutely, resolutely clean. And there's some dynamic flow of musical ideas. Keyboards are whored to the point of
exhaustion. The drums are crispier than a Nestle's commercial. The aim is
true: Move your ass immediately. But there's very little emotional
connection, and the songs languish in repetitive hell for six, seven, eight minutes at a time.
I actually preferred former DFA acolytes The Rapture, when they were scraggly
indie rockers with chainsaw riffs and bad hair, as on their debut
EP Out of the Races and Onto the Tracks. Which was an early DFA production,
so go figure. The presence of reformed percussive giants Liquid Liquid is certainly
welcome too, even if they've only got one of the compilation's 30 songs. That
song, the wriggling-out-of-a-straitjacket manic drum
attack "Bellhead," is predictably a masterpiece. And I like Murphy's
side project LCD Soundsystem and their rambunctious slab of obnoxious funk
"Yeah." But I don't like it three different times on three different mixes.
That does seem symmetrical, considering this audacious document is a
triple-decker, three discs, just begging to burn you out on boogie-rific
disco pomp. The third disc is strictly remixes and new dubs — none of it
essential listening. Other DFA bands (a title slowly morphing into its own lame
genre), like the Juan Maclean, Pixeltan and J.O.Y., rock out
with their metaphysical egos out; their contributions offer spindly grooves and
uninteresting lyrics that, inevitably, have some shitty subtext no one really
cares about.
Though I generally don't think about this kind of music, ever (I
imagine thinking about it too much could damage necessary elements of your
nervous system), I understand even less about the culture surrounding it. I
am curious about this: Who buys this stuff? Aside from DJs and people who
want to seem irrevocably hip, of course. It's the music of sardonically distant,
socially dissociated city folk who love to dance and drink pink martinis. And
if that's you, well, have at it.
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