Not that I want to seem like an ungrateful bastard, but I doubt this review will make me seem anything but.  As much as there were elements of Adam Green’s stuff that I liked on previous records, it was all just so unbearably arch and ‘witty’ that I found that my annoyance at what came across as his smugness pretty much throttled my capacity to listen to his music with any real enjoyment.  Just tone it down a bit, I would think to myself.

Well now, lyrically anyway, he kind of has, and I’m still not happy.  Musically, this is big stuff from Green – his trademark acoustic guitar strum making way for a bigger, more pantomime sound.  He’s always had a penchant for swooping, slightly surreal forays into oddly theatrical backing, and here that kind of calypso soul-with-swing comes out to play much more often.  It actually sounds a lot like Big Production to me, and even the album cover looks a bit smarter and sharper than usual, all of which serves to do what I had been looking forward to for a while, tone down the Adam Greenyness of it all.

Unfortunately, this actually robs the music of something crucial.  In toning down the Adam Greenyness they seem to have, erm, lost a little bit of the Adam Greenyness, if you know what I mean.  Basically, in stopping the vocals and hence the dubious lyrics from dominating, they seem to have robbed the music of something of its essential character, and I find myself looking back to his previous recordings, which I found deeply irritating at times, with something like nostalgia.

Some people are just never fucking happy.

Adam Green – Tropical Island
Adam Green – Broadcast Beach

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If you were to look at my last.fm listening stats you’d think Lach was my favourite band in all the world.  This isn’t really the case,  I’m just rather fascinated with this album: it’s so familar and yet so hard to pin down.

My ignorance slaps me across the face with a wet halibut once more because it turns out that Lach is more than just established, the man is a pillar of the New York anti-folk community and has been releasing albums for nigh-on twenty years.  So much for this young whippersnapper.  I’ve yet to entirely understand what anti-folk is, but my best guess is ‘folk music without the prettiness’.

Anti-rock ‘n’ roll might be more appropriate at times here.  Pick the more straight-up songs on this album and you’ll be making comparisons to John Darnielle, Eef Barzelay or perhaps even the legendary Bob Dylan, although the nasal vocals may be the dominant factor in this last association.

At other times the rock ‘n’ roll sax gives you the impression you might be listening to Bruce Springsteen, had he turned into a bar singer instead of a stadium rocker.  Then on occasion he even veers close to the kind of ghost-town carnival atmosphere that I love so much.  As I said, it never sounds anything other than completely familiar, this record, but for some reason I’d never call it predictable or samey.

It feels faintly cheeky making glib internet judgments on a man who is clearly a legend, so all I’ll do is say that I really reckon this album is worth a go.  The pace is purposeful, the vocals plaintive, and the lyrics neat and evocative.  Buy it.

Lach – George at Coney
Lach – Men Don’t Come Back
Lach – Crazy Horse

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