The Intelligence
Fake Surfers
Rating: 2.5
Label: In the Red
Listening to the new record from The Intelligence, Fake Surfers, unfortunately forces me to ask if anyone really enjoys noisy experimentation by otherwise poppy, simple bands or if somewhere along the line this sort of thing became a prerequisite for becoming critically respected. Because within Fake Surfers lurks a tremendous, excellent album, full of Cramps-like boogie stomping and a White Stripes-esque love of hooks. It just all happens to be buried beneath sludgy, completely unnecessary edgy posturing.
Intelligence ringleader Lars Finberg clearly learned a thing or two about unhinged pop during his time with Seattle’s most tragically unsung band the A-Frames, but he lacks that group’s self-control. The A-Frames’ material always threatened to become obscenely over the top, but the group knew when to reign in their excess and psychotic tendencies just enough to keep things bittersweet rather than outright sour. Even though Finberg has been working at The Intelligence for longer than the A-Frames existed, he still hasn’t managed to find the right balance of maniacal tinkering and hooky pop throwbacks, instead leaning far too often on noisy messes that offer little in the way of pay-off.
Take the album’s opener, the source of the album’s title and a completely unnecessary journey through what sounds like the worse score you ever had inflicted on you by a sub-MST3K film. Or “Saint Bartolomeu,” which starts out as a gleefully demented go-go bass and drum number before out of tune instruments and “weird” samples float in and out like farts at a packed party. “Warm Transfers” has the same idea, even featuring the same intro noise burst. “Fuck Eat Skull” is, well, self-explanatory, really. Is it sinking in yet?
For every two fantastic songs or so, there is an absolutely worthless pile of shit to disturb the flow and ruin your mood. And yes, putting sprinkles on a pile of crap doesn’t change the fact that it’s just a decorated pile of crap, but goddamn if the songs that work on Fake Surfers aren’t splendid sprinkles. “Moody Tower” is the best amalgamation of transient noise bursts and joyous, menacing hooks you’ve heard, I swear. Staccato guitars, tambourines, a vocal line so simple you’re kicking yourself if you’re a musician, wondering why the hell you didn’t do it first: everything works. Sure, “Debt & ESP” tries to sabotage itself with some brutal, nasty feedback, but even that can’t stop the minimalist dance number that follows from kicking ass and taking names.
When The Intelligence find the right balance of chaos versus sweet pop, they’re on to something unique and wonderful. But that balance is struck far too rarely, unlike their similarly unhinged peers Thee Oh Sees, or even Finberg’s other project, Unnatural Helpers. Given that The Intelligence are still barely more than Finberg’s bedroom-based side-project, some lenience should be allowed; but even with that, it’s hard not to feel like every Intelligence album is an instance of being cheated out of something perfect.
by Morgan Davis
