Phoenix timed the release of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart well. With early releases and leaks, it probably could have dropped in March or April, but instead it comes out just as summer is in full bloom (that June 21 date corresponds to science/nature, not mood). And a summer album it is, inspiring grinning and grooving and all-around good times. But Phoenix hasn’t changed what’s most important to establishing the requisite overused title of “Summer Album”—they’ve always been better in small doses than large ones. I don’t have an enormous fondness for the two (of three) full-lengths of theirs I’ve heard before this one (i.e., liked to some marginal degree, but never loved), but they have several killer tracks already (and a few more winking anticipatorily in the last couple months from Wolfgang). Yes, a few new songs will join the ranks of “Run, Run, Run,” “Too Young,” “Everything Is Everything,” “If I Ever Feel Better” and “Consolation Prizes,” but that equals a wonderful summer mix rather than an entire disc you’ll wear out before the leaves change colors.
They specialize in familiar tricks and melodies and their lyrics are either cryptically truncated or obtrusively simple; shaded observations and rhetorical questions mostly. “Where would you go/Where would you go with a lasso?” is a killer silly hook and “Acres/Visible horizon/Right where it starts and ends/When did we start the end?” is just as indistinguishable yet far more deliberate in being so. As for the music, there’s very little here that’s surprising; even the catchiest songs sound familiar because you’ve heard their inspirations. Usually, it’s not a problem—how often does pop music really surprise, anyway?—but that means that the ones that don’t stick probably never will.
Afraid it sounds like tripe now? Arrangements as clinical as these need clinical detachment to figure out why some work and others don’t. But work some do, and they should get paid overtime. Make no mistake about it—“Lisztomania” is one of the best songs of the year simply because it inspires bodily reaction every time (toe tap subtle or full-on sing-along, whichever you prefer). “1901” and “Lasso” aren’t far back, either. When Thomas Mars goes for a full-blown falsetto (“Fences”) or lets the instruments take over (“Love Like a Sunset Part I”), you’re in a good place, too. It’s when you’re stuck with the same giddily bouncing beats that you suppress a yawn—but if those represent the lesser tracks, we should wish to always be so lucky.
The album is frontloaded with perky blasts of power pop; earliness ensures freshness even on the fifth spin. Lest you feel the monotony of the bubbly times (like a certain recent album from Passion Pit), Phoenix gives you a break with “Love Like a Sunset” in two parts, which somehow involves chattering rhythms (culled from a drum machine? I don’t know) and a searing synth drone—whether they want to explode into Daft Punk around the turn of the millennium or the Who from the early 70s is tough to decide. Either way, it’ll always be amusing to hear Parisians taking on krautrock. “Countdown” abrasively cracks (or croaks?) with steady cymbal flashes so that it’s slightly rougher than the waxy goodness around it. Don’t worry, though; there’s a cute little key twinkle late in the game similar to an Alka Seltzer splashing into ginger ale. I could have used more of these pace changers, but their very existence makes the long haul more palatable. In contrast, “Girlfriend” couldn’t sound more ordinary compared to earlier successes—after multiple album listens, my mind always wanders when it comes on.
But for all of “Sunset”’s unexpected strengths, we’re here for the dizzying thrill, and so we return to the shorter, catchier ones. “Lisztomania” is breathless and devoid of attention as Mars huffs, “So sentimental/Not sentimental, no/Romantic, not discussing it/Darling, I’m down and lonely/When were the fortunate only?” Referring to a “Beatlemania” of sorts nearly two centuries ago where Franz Liszt inspired screaming female fan-demonium, it sums up the band’s appeal—“degrading” themselves to the populism that earns shrieks of delight pitted against the “high art” concept of classical chops and precision. In case you forgot that by the time the album ends, “Armistice” is a fine reminder, slicing the synth sound into the chiming pluck of harpsichord-esque tones and stabbing you with a pounding disco beat. In between, first single “1901” and almost-certainly-future-single “Lasso” ensures the dance party won’t end.
When cursorily defining Phoenix, their correlations (and collaborations) with Air made sense but labels as the French Strokes never sat well—only the disaffected swung to Casablancas but anyone can get down to this stuff (dirty/clean differences are there, too). As if calling it “dance pop” seems to be an insult, maybe it is, but that’s based on point of view. I usually can’t figure how Phoenix wants me to feel by any evidence beyond snappy beats, and I can’t really say I care. Any band that ties relationship metaphors towards lassos isn’t trying to bend the noodle. But an absence of stupidity ensures fizzy times, and though songs like “Girlfriend” and “Rome” didn’t inspire much of a reaction, overall it’s about as good as their last one. Use that as your measuring tape.
