Listening Station: They Might Be Giants, the Black Keys, the Hellacopters, the Faint, Client

They Might Be Giants

The Spine

Crafty little composer Paul Williams once said that a song should have only one really good line. Presumably, he meant that the rest of them should kind of hang back in service of this one good lyrical hook instead of upstaging it. Right on. But rules are made to be broken, and it's the continual beating on this one that's always formed the core of my satisfaction and annoyance with They Might Be Giants. Okay, maybe Paul was talking about only one type of song, but it's pretty much the same one that TMBG has been trying to perfect for most of their career. When it works for them, it works wonderfully, I admit. Experts agree: Linnell and Flansburgh are a very smart, creative, multitalented and well-intentioned couple of guys. Their vigorous nods to a showtunesy/Vaudeville tradition and stylistically promiscuous commitment to form have yielded a lot of grand and deliciously catchy stuff. Think of a more refined Ween for the easily spooked. Too often for my tastes, though, TMBG's ditties become unprioritized heaps of those aforementioned "good lines," each trying way too hard to outclever the last--exquisite kitchens jammed with grinning, anal-retentive loner cooks.

Still, I worshipped these guys back in the day for a lot of what I'm now complaining about. And it's really only the first half of their 10th album, The Spine, which gets under my skin so. Very hit or miss, mostly miss. The smart-camp is always integral, something to be embraced--no problem--but "Wearing a Raincoat" had me gritting my teeth at TMBG's latter-day capacity for pure whine and forced whimsy. Fortunately, that's the worst it gets here. "Bastard Wants to Hit Me" does everything for vocoder dance-pop that Cher couldn't, while "It's Kickin' In," "Au Contraire" and "Damn Good Times" reclaim much of the energy and glorious restraint of TMBG's early days.

Maybe I've just grown out of whatever used to thrill me about the two nice Johns, or maybe I'm still not over what happened 14 years ago when they wouldn't answer my knocks at the back door of a Virginia rock club hours before a show. I could hear the nerds tuning and talking mere feet away, and all I wanted was a chance to stammer and shake the hands that wrote "Birdhouse in Your Soul."--Dave Surratt

The Black Keys

Rubber Factory

The Black Keys often are categorized as some sort of nostalgia band, a rocking ode to Delta blues. But while guitarist/singer Dan Auerbach and drummer Patrick Carney--as a twosome they are often compared with the White Stripes--find inspiration in the primal power of legends like Robert Johnson and John Lee Hooker, their music, especially on their third full-length album, Rubber Factory, is something brand new. The Keys have developed a sound all their own, and it shouldn't be niched into oblivion.

Rubber Factory finds the Keys venturing beyond the stripped-down ethos of 2002's The Big Come Up and 2003's Thickfreakness. Just a little anyway. For example, two guitar parts are heard simultaneously on several tracks, perhaps a first for these mavens of minimalist production. But the Keys' adventurousness does not diminish their rampaging blues rock foundation, best evidenced on "10 A.M. Automatic," which rocks even harder than last year's anthemic "Set Me Free." Rubber Factory represents the Black Keys at the top of their game--a game in which no one else is playing.--Geoff Schumacher

The Faint

Wet from Birth

Pssst, hipsters, here's a little secret that you might want to jot down in your Hello Kitty journals: The Faint will never be popular, so it's okay to like them. Sure, the Omaha quintet earned some cursory praise in the mainstream music press for 2001's Danse Macabre, but the Faint's Freudian synthesis of repressed desire and prickly synthesizers isn't likely to convert the masses--not like the comforting un-sah, un-sah of the Chemical Brothers and the Crystal Method. Rather, Wet from Birth calls to mind the morbid sexuality of Nine Inch Nails ("Birth") and the industrial crunch of Big Black ("Drop Kick the Punks"). The most ambitious album of the band's mercurial career, Wet from Birth occasionally misfires--most notably on the oversexed "Erection" and the reggae-tinged "Phone Call"--but it also delivers unforgettable lines like, "I was acting indifferent at the merch booth putting on makeup" ("Desperate Guys"). Perhaps this very coyness is the key to the Faint's charm. Instead of charging directly into the beats, the Faint draws out the electronic foreplay, only plunging in when the listener can't stand the wait any longer.--Newt Briggs

Hellacopters

By the Grace of God

Swedish rock conjures so many righteous images, from the Stones-ish swagger of critical darling punk-poppers the Hives to the elder-statesmen and stateswomen of ABBA. If longevity means anything anymore in rock, the Hellacopters deserve a collective nod from those still unable to shake their love for '70s-era arena guitar glory (.38 Special or Blue Oyster Cult, anyone?). To new listeners, these monsters of Swede-rock sound similar to Brit glam kings The Darkness, sans falsetto. Putting aside the need to categorize, the sound retains as much identity as any band depending on certain staples/clichés: crazy guitar solos, sing-along style choruses, competent rhythm section. But what can you say about By the Grace of God that isn't said by it being the band's 400th album? Rush out to buy a copy? If you find it in the used bin. Burn your buddy's? Definitely. 'Cause this Swede-rock can drive you mad.--Carey Murphy

Client

City

Client is so icy cool you expect the act's two enigmatic frontwomen to exhale a paralyzing frost as though they were living a real-life Dentyne commercial. With their reluctant smiles and penchant for stewardess outfits, the femmebots behind Client have chiseled out an electro-pop album that sounds like Missing Persons frozen in a glacier for a couple millennia, or the Human League with that sense of calculated monotony ratcheted up a few turns.

But how cool can a band get before its pulse drops to zero? That's the problem with City; the mercury lowers to the point where you'll find yourself utterly bored by such synthy ice-sculptures as "One Day at a Time," "Theme" and "Don't Call Me Baby." Is City earnest? Is it ironic? Either way, it feels like some cube of freezer-burned '80s aesthetic was popped out of the ice tray on a gamble that it's palatable again. Oddly, the more spookily inhuman of the songs--check out the eery bounce of "Overdrive"--best reveal the flesh and blood behind the project. Too bad there's so little warmth to go around. Ah, Client. Ah, humanity!--Andrew Kiraly