We can’t try to ascribe meaning or purpose to Win Butler’s mindset without becoming a target to his hostility. We shouldn’t try anyhow, but still we do. Nevertheless, we can navigate it with courteous ease—courteous, because his roots in melodramatic antagonism are so refreshingly honest. The only doubt to give us discomfort is the source, but even that can be hypothesized: he doesn’t much like us. But there’s tension there, allowing him to remain a fixture without pushing away his audience. Lucky for both parties, he has a band to surround and ably support him while they lend balance without contradiction. Notable, of course, is the tandem with Régine Chassagne, who could be a yin to the yang if she played a more vital (or at least visible) role. But unease is too valuable for them to offer equality, and who wants to hear these Montreal-based musicians pull their punches anyhow? They’re not even all that accusatory on The Suburbs, but at least they care
The number of people who champion the group’s sophomore effort, Neon Bible, more than their debut, Funeral, are roughly the same number as those who liked Casino more than Goodfellas—I’m sure they exist, but I’ve never met them, and probably wouldn’t want to. But while Funeral was no doubt epochal in the turning tide of the indie rock culture, Neon Bible was oft-overlooked, even unfairly disparaged by certain groups, most likely those who expected more of the same anthemic and ostentatious rock opuses found on the debut. But despite the presence of instant stunners like “Keep the Car Running,” “The Well and the Lighthouse” and a reimagining of “No Cars Go” from their early EP, most of the songs stomped, smoldered and churned moodily while Butler pretended to be the Boss (as if that was a bad thing). Anyone turned off by that maturation may likely view The Suburbs with the same irritation—it’s a closer cousin to Bible’s adult obsession than Funeral’s adolescent anguish. But The Suburbs solves Bible’s biggest drawback—all of that external confrontation (and drive for solutions amidst the accusations) caused it to be untidy and unfocused. Perhaps that makes their third full-length go-round something of a “best of both worlds” endeavor. So why then is it their least enthralling?
To be fair, this is a band that seems incapable of delivering a disaster—even their least inspired songs have a few lines, a lovely arrangement, uncanny urgency, or an earworm hook that can’t be dismissed. So by sliding this in the “third spot,” I’m simply insisting this is usually a very good record instead of frequently a great one. Its youth might prove me wrong as of now, since some albums just can’t be judged appropriately after five or six spins (but if it really required any more unfolding and absorbing, that issue could automatically be chalked up as a detriment). So, too, can blame rest on expectations—this is Arcade Fire, after all, not Razorlight, so I perhaps unfairly expect something incredible with every release. Based on those expectations attached to both quality and style, The Suburbs couldn’t start on shakier ground than the opening title track. “The Suburbs,” with its jaunty piano shuffle and relaxed tempo, couldn’t be further from the stirring, surging, grandiose, bombastic promise we expect from this act, and nowhere near as grabbing and excitable as “Neighborhood #1 (Tunnels)” or “Black Mirror.” I can’t fault its vague emotion about “moving past” an unspecified “feeling” since it serves as an umbrella theme introduction, nor do I complain that it’s not as grand-royal as I’ve come to relish from the Arcade Fire. The problem is that for all of its brazen additive drama (rising strings, falsettos, etc.), it can’t escape the ordinary blandness of its barroom clomp.
But The Suburbs glides effortlessly from there to a more emphatic and enveloping rocker in the form of “Ready to Start,” which tackles Butler’s issues with fame and, ahem, expectations (“All the kids have always known/That the emperor wears no clothes/But they bow down to him anyway/’Cause it’s better than being alone”). Its driving rhythm is hard to resist, and the addition of synth keys and strings simply embellishes the hooks instead of the drama; easier, yes, but also wiser. The internal conflict that influenced “Ready to Start” becomes extroverted on “Rococo,” which witnesses Butler mocking the very hipsters that helped make them household names. Or maybe it’s the hipsters who tore apart his band’s second LP. Either way, I’m sure we—*cough*, I mean, they—deserve it. It’s difficult not to smirk at, “Let’s go downtown and watch the modern kids/They will eat right out of your hand/Using great big words that they don’t understand,” but its skewed, abstract chamber pop melody is too plaintive for its resisting spiral and clamor (riptide effect, I guess).
Returning to the album’s prevailing “life and discord in the suburbs” theme, “Suburban War” makes no great demands with its opening couplet, guaranteeing its simplicity to wind up being one of the most heartfelt and memorable: “Let’s go for a drive and see the town tonight/There’s nothing to do but I don’t mind when I’m with you.” Unfortunately, the tune’s wilted Neil Young-ian melody never really gets off the ground. Along with “Rococo,” these two present interesting problems—they’re quite strong verbally, but the music doesn’t really stick. And each of their follow-ups (“Empty Room” and “Month of May”) are guided by thrusting, crisp-punk/garage distorted guitars, which aren’t that spectacular, but because of their fast tempo and abundant energy, they’re almost mercilessly exciting, especially “Room,” which undercuts the locomotive energy with a dizzying violin (in fact, it creates a dense flood of sound that almost rivals Funeral’s biggest numbers).
Despite my issues with its mediocre opener, the sequencing is generally on target, allowing their various baroque tendencies to metamorphose at will inside of single compositions, offer the occasional liquid transition between tunes, and deliver the rollercoaster surge and retreat between dusty folk rock ballads, extravagantly layered pop shrines, and fist-pumping, Wall of Sound rock n’ roll. They also prove that ambition can trump conservatism when its sincere; what The Suburbs lacks in stadium-ready powerhouses it makes up for in complex multi-part epics like “Half Light” and “Sprawl,” both of which are broken up into parts I and II. Pompous alert? Not for this pack, especially as the sections are clearly broken but complement each other. On “Light,” a steady strum and stomp overwhelmed by warm, skyward strings moves into the darker pull of a churning rhythm that eventually rises to jarring electro. And “Sprawl” begins as a haunted ballad illuminated by sullied strings and mournful keys but stomps like a fiery folk number with the electronic spark of disco in the next sweep as Chassagne leads, “Living in the sprawl/Dead shopping malls rise like mountains beyond mountains/And there's no end in sight/I need the darkness, someone please cut the lights.” Not quite transcendent, as they were clearly aiming, but marvels to the theory that sometimes economy is overrated when the stretch is so winsome even in resignation.
Despite the best efforts of songs like “Ready to Start,” “Modern Man” and “Sprawl II,” The Suburbs is not a song-driven record, so discovering entryways can be difficult on the first couple of listens. But it’s not an entirely successful “complete album” either. Although it does have greater focus and clarity than Neon Bible, the Arcade Fire (specifically the Butler brothers) still sound a bit restless in trying to describe exactly what their memories of suburban life amount to. Sometimes too literal and sometimes too vague, they extract nothing terribly original, though they do find some amusing, clever and perceptive observations about the insular ordinariness it can frequently affect. But there are also a few too many strange tangents (like references to chess-playing computers and the aforementioned grief in critical acclaim) to make The Suburbs a wholly convincing treatise. It never unravels to the point of aggravation, but this is definitely one of those hour-plus albums where you recognize that an hour-plus has passed after it concludes.
Revisits, however, highlight how much this band still gets right. A little short on hooks and a little lost on purpose, there’s still palpable breathless energy when they race ahead and the flock of instruments can create some truly dense and lovely spells that suits all of the emotive ache. Despite his obvious affection for the dramatic pulse and crackling songwriting of Bruce Springsteen and Neil Young, Butler on The Suburbs lacks the key appeal of both artists—he never rallies the crowd to a furor like “Born to Run” or drives the audience to painful reflection through closure like “Walk On.” This album reflects a malaise that’s free of libertine abandon as well as big statements and easy answers. And just as my initial criticism just shaped into a semi-reluctant plaudit, so too does The Suburbs eventually change resistant disappointment into reserved admiration. Even if it’s not always their best foot they’re putting forth, they always stride boldly.
"The Suburbs" is on sale August 3, 2010 from Merge.
