Of Montreal Cleans Out Their Attic

Just when it seemed the '60s-inspired indie pop that was all the
rage in the '90s (as performed by Neutral Milk Hotel, Olivia Tremor
Control, and pretty much every other band that recorded as part of
the now-defunct Elephant 6 collective) was running out of steam, Of
Montreal have returned with Satanic Panic in the Attic, a
deliriously inventive album that might just be the best the genre
has ever seen.

Then again, it's questionable whether the many great bands that
operated under the Elephant 6 banner, including Of Montreal, really
constitute a genre. More accurately, they fused together sounds
from a common pool of influences (first and foremost the Beach Boys
and the Beatles) to create an aesthetic that defied conventional
categorization. What makes Satanic Panic so exceptional,
however, is the fact that while it certainly is a stylistic
pastiche, it doesn't sound like one: bandleader Kevin Barnes
summons up almost every style in pop history and throws them
together seamlessly, as though they were never separate to begin
with.

While it's nearly impossible to chart all the various artists
and genres that inform the music on Satanic Panic, an attempt to do
so reveals the incredible eclecticism of the album. "Disconnect the
Dots," the album's opener, starts off with a Cars-inspired
synth-pop riff, moves into a lilting Beatles-esque verse full of
thick harmonies, then throws out a stunning bridge that employs
elaborate vocal arrangements evoking late-'60s pop groups like
Millennium and The Association. And did I mention that it's the
first song I've ever heard that casually substitutes the chiefly
British term of endearment "poppet" for American pop clich�s
like "baby" or "darling?" At the same time, though, all of these
comparisons are a bit strained: in Barnes' hands, all disparate
elements meld together into something that doesn't sound at all
derivative or strained, but rather blissfully effortless. What's
more, the album's constant inventiveness--deployed at breakneck
pace--never lets up for the 40 or so minutes that follow. Over the
course of Satanic Panic, Barnes makes forays into techno-pop
("Rapture Rapes the Muses," which features a synth line that never
fails to remind me of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles theme),
sensitive acoustic balladry ("City Bird"), and Saturday morning
cartoon bubblegum ("My British Tour Diary"). As an added bonus, he
throws in a few blink-and-you'll-miss it recreations of other
records; so far I've spotted the crazy seagull noises from the
Beatles's "Tomorrow Never Knows" and the vocal break from David
Bowie's "Fame." These little homages are, like everything else on
the album, incorporated subtly and seamlessly into a flawless
every-hair-in-place montage.

As if Satanic Panic weren't remarkable enough already, it's also
all the work--give or take a few guitars and flutes here and
there--of one man, the aforementioned maestro Kevin Barnes. If
Barnes had been around in the '60s, he could have easily held his
own with baroque pop heroes like Curt Boettcher, Van Dyke Parks,
and even Brian Wilson himself. At present, he blows retro popsters
like The Wondermints (Brian Wilson's current backing band), The
Coral, and Super Furry Animals straight out of the water, largely
due to the fact that he transcends his influences rather than
imitating them. My only complaint about the album is the fact that
"Attic" doesn't rhyme with "Satanic" and "Panic," disrupting a
title that seems intended to effortlessly roll off the tongue. My
suggestion for a replacement? How 'bout Satanic Panic on the
Titanic? But all joking aside--if Brian Wilson's looking for a
collaborator on his long-unfinished Smile album, intended for
release sometime later this year, I suggest he give Kevin Barnes a
call.