"Unique. /yu'nik/ [yoo-neek] 1. existing as the only one or as the sole example; single; solitary in type or characteristics. 2. having no like or equal; unparalleled; incomparable. "
This one word, if it's not being downright abused, is so often badly or irritatingly used that I feel moved to quote Inigo Montoya from "The Princess Bride": "You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means."
I'm getting this whinge out of the way early. You see, Italian Japanese take their name from Allen Nicholas' "unique dual ancestry" (thank you PR man). I suppose it's not entirely impossible that, out of a world population of 6.6 billion, an individual could have a unique ancestry if it were traced back far enough (hundreds upon hundreds of years, perhaps), but to suggest that the combination of Italian and Japanese could ever possibly constitute "unique" is stretching credulity a little far.
Moreover, apparently the band has a "unique sound". Take definition one for a moment, and this is entirely possible (although given the number of new indie-rock bands springing up on MySpace every three seconds, that's certainly open for debate as well). It doesn't necessarily mean that the sound is amazing though. And "without equal" - definition number two - is a pretty big claim for a band that has only just released its debut album.
"The Lush, Romantic Weirdness" is that debut album. Already riding high on the positive noise made in their direction from KROQ, NPR and MTVU, does the band's brand of indie-rock have what it takes to match the gush being spewed from the accompanying double-side of A4?
The opening moments are lukewarm. "Jeremiah", a downhearted tale inspired by the death of a friend's brother from Leukaemia, builds slowly into an effects-ridden swirl that sees the line "We got that sonic beat/the light of my turnstile" echo and reverberate between the listener's ears. It feels a little underwhelming though, and the lyrics remain cloaked in abstraction, offering only occasional hints at the subject matter ("Make with me a storm/and lay down your pain"). The band seems intent on proving that their path to music stardom has been nothing but straight and clear - indeed, intent on proving their 'uniqueness' - but one of their more energetic tracks might have offered an easier way in to the album. A lot has been made of the album's lyrical content and the band's ability to dress up dark and uncompromising content in upbeat pop songs lasting four minutes, but a number of the tracks, including the opener, cloak their meaning a little too well. Intriguing snapshots of the images described are all that remain; 'polaroids', if you will, that fade into focus. Fleeting glimpses of lyrical ingenuity fly by, caught out of the corner of the listener's consciousness: "She turned the power off/in my veins" ("Paper Tigers"); "Wasted days/in your mind/cast no shadows/in the fog" ("Jaguar Paw"); "Wanna sew up my eyes/when I found your likeness/let your secrets pour out/and turn mine/into my scars" ("Polaroid You"). You rarely get a sense of the bigger picture though.
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Relatively speaking, however, "Le Pony" is crystal clear: a tale of a doomed relationship with a drug-addled partner, the song is decidedly stark. "She's your life, your lie/say your last goodbye", it proclaims morosely, "Help me find peace in the pills from your scene". The track, together with the addictive "Polaroid You", also proves that the band has an ear for melodic, unusual, pop songs. The latter, very reminiscent, along with "Minus", of their Washington state cousins, Minus The Bear, melds sweet call and response harmonies to crisp drums, chiming guitars and languid keys, building urgency out of a decidedly mellow wistfulness. "Le Pony" - all chuggingly insistent guitars, tight rhythms and plaintive vocals - is pure single material, unsurprisingly receiving the bulk of the plays on American radio, but an impressively spirited slice of post-punk intensity nonetheless.
The band's strengths lie in their almost bipolar fusion of mood - decidedly easygoing at times, tautly energetic at others - and an impressive knack for the 'earworm'. Repeating near-unintelligible but unerringly catchy refrains, the band frequently succeed in embedding their songs' melodies deep within the brain, without ever doing anything particularly clever. "Jaguar Paw", despite being one of the weaker tracks on the album, still pulls out a chorus dripping with feel-good factor, while the title track (which is almost Mars Volta-esque in its unwieldiness) is full of tensely arpeggiated guitars.
Between the ungainly tempo-hopping twinkle of "Naming Plants" and the whirring offbeat futurism of "Ladybird", "The Lush, Romantic Weirdness" is an intriguing and at times genre-bending album, with angular riffs aplenty. "Unique" may still be a little beyond them, but the band shouldn't be disheartened. A pop album chock full of tunes is never a bad thing. "Polaroid You" asks the question, "Can I crawl in your ear?" With some of the stuff on offer, 'no' may not be an option.
Italian Japanese on MySpace
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