Cloud Nothings

If two things have come to represent the death of rock to the grizzled punker, they are the sweater and the horned rim glasses of modern pop stars. Stars? Well, if mumbling insecurities and casting eyes downward while avoiding all emotional contact with one's audience can describe a star, perhaps we need a new metaphor. I don't understand new alterna-indie music. I kept hearing about Sleigh Bells and so I downloaded some of their music and I sat before the computer, back aching, stupified, wondering how I had become that guy, the one who wonders sincerely where it all went wrong with western civilization. That Sleigh Bells shit? That is some terrible fucking music. I don't care how hot the singer is.

So let me recommend a new band with a young singer who wears sweaters and horned rimmed glasses and has even grown a scruffy beard and let's all take a breath and remember that melody, at the end of the day, is king. Cloud Nothings is essentially some 19-year old kid named Dylan whom you really shouldn't look up on youtube. Just listen to the tunes, and you'll have a better chance of enjoying something from that generation that gets harder to understand. The first record proper, the self-titled one, sounds like a Lemonheads greatest hits record if they had more complex songwriting angles and didn't withdraw into punk cliches. He even sounds like that other Lemonhead singer from the early days not named Evan. I'm telling you man- this kid finds melodies around every turn, and some of them are surprising. So what's the rub? The kid, young as he is, clearly hadn't decided who he wanted to sound like, and some of the voices sound like seven shades of indie fey, while others get closer to that L-head dude. Your chances of enjoying the record depend in part on your ability to get past some of his more grating voices, and that ain't easy. I keep listening to the thing and the vocals grate less, but I can't say you won't hear it, cringe, and curse my name.

What's more interesting is that the sophomore effort sounds little like the first one. This guy could have taken his time and crafted twelve more love letters to the harmony gods, but he gets a touch aggro in spots and spreads himself out in space, jamming out the repetition in one tune to over eight minutes of what may or may not be ironically named "Wasted Days." And heresy alert: it sounds like a cleaned up Wipers in spots, even if the voice doesn't. This kid nails some pop songs along the way, as just eight tunes arrive, but the risk-taking counts, and this is one kid to pay attention to, especially if he gets contacts, buys a leather jacket and shaves. That was a joke, asshole.