As the song crescendos with building, buzzing guitar, Modest Mouse distills Built to Spill's essence in two minutes. "Alone Down There" announces, "Hello, how do you do?/ My name is you," uncomfortably close to the inner ear. Chiming guitar, strings, over-dubbed echoes, deteriorating machines, and thumping drums fill a dark, beautiful void as a ghostly Brock laments, "So long to this cold, cold part of the world." Any of Brock's prose is instantly quotable. After this brief foray into crunching pop, "The Cold Part" stretches out to infinity. Flanged riffs pump Pixies-ish glee in Modest Mouse's tightest punch to date. "A Different City" sits like the obvious single. This heavy march, driven by Jeremiah Green's hissing breaks, sounds wholly unique and creepy. Those familiar with Modest Mouse's live show will instantly recognize this as a trademark moment for Brock screaming into his guitar pickups. Sinister vocal doubletracking bursts into crackled shouting. Looping tones usher a nasty bassline and disco rhythms as "Tiny Cities Made of Ashes" ceremoniously kicks listener ass. A chorus sighs "Broke my back" over delicate pickings, sleepy kickdrums, accentuating banjo, and oddball guitar pings. "Perfect Disguise" quietly kicks off the otherworldly passage of Moon. Laser guitar lines and Brock's wrath blare over violins and undulating bass on the massive "Dark Center of the Universe." Structurally, it's still classic Modest Mouse up to this point, excepting the volume of warped effects. Deck's hands keep the affair shimmering and clear, in what will undoubtedly vault him into the echelon of Fridmanns and Godriches. The song's percussion relies on jacked drumstick claps and electro-bongos as no less than five guitar tracks float on aching melodies. Suddenly, echoing, truck-sized drums stomp over the ebow-dripping chorus as Brock repeatedly pronounces under a sheet of reverb, "The universe is shaped exactly like the Earth/ If you go straight long enough you'll end up where you were." Those failing to find the brilliance inherent in Modest Mouse at this point, please check in your Xanax at the window and an agent will escort you to the Target music department.īy the time track two, "Gravity Rides Everything," begins with backwards drums, strums, and plucks, it's quite evident Mouse Mouse have traveled well beyond their past. Isaac plucks a lovely fluttering acoustic bed before he admits, "Everything that keeps us together is falling apart," tersely summing the human condition and the theme of the record in ten seconds. "3rd Planet" opens the record innocently enough. Singing guitarist Isaac Brock constantly obsesses over the afterlife, and with Deck's help he's found it, far out in space and inside his clouded, scattered brain. Piano, cello, sleighbells, keyboards, chimes, and more can be excavated from the mix. Layers upon layers of treated and raw sounds blend into a thick headtrip. The growth, bravery, and confidence are staggering for a trio that most recently hammered through a song about "doin' the cockroach." Producer Brian Deck of Red Red Meat conjures the supernatural. You officially have not heard Modest Mouse until you have heard their major label debut. The latter of which currently questions my ascertations. Modest Mouse generate a divide between the venerating and violent like few other bands. For at least a few months, the world can stop waiting for Radiohead's next album, and start wondering how in the hell Modest Mouse will ever top the monumental, ground-breaking, hypnotic, sublime The Moon & Antarctica. At this point, I think the world agrees on OK Computer as the last major event in album rock. I've argued that this occurs approximately every three years, due to slight financial recessions. Yet every so often- whether due to astronomical occurrences, economic fluctuations, or inherent quality cycles (which have all actually been debated at one point)- an album comes along that inhibits our serotonin uptake, cleans our ears, palpitates our hearts, ignites our passion, and justifies our existence.
(Some lady beat us to the punch with our farming equipment site at, but we're still looking into .) Plus, we're not even trying to sell anything on the Internet, further compounding our stubbornness. We talk about music constantly on the Internet, which, admittedly, is geeky. And this isn't even done in the photogenic setting of a stoop or a coffeeshop. (Unless Ryan's holding back on me.) Mostly we sit around discussing music. We have converted no lofts into spacious playpens loaded with iMacs and Nerf hoops. Writers wearing button-down shirts with the sleeves rolled up don't hustle around a maze of cubicles while Ryan chews out rookies in his office. It's not very exciting behind the scenes at Pitchfork.
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