The Shins, Wincing the Night
Away.
Now in his late 30s, Shins
frontman James Mercer is caught in a nostalgic moment. His band's third album is
practically a homage to the jangling, melancholy British music he fell in love
with as a teenager: ghosts of Smiths and Cure songs shiver through the melodies,
while on Phantom Limb and Sea Legs, Mercer could be using the Morrissey setting
on a voice adapter, so accurately does he replicate those distinctive vocal
trills and sighs. Not all of the album could have been recorded 20 years ago:
the space-age gloops snagging at the chords in Sleeping Lessons and Red Rabbits,
and the jagged doctored guitar in Split Needles, bring the sound up to
date.
There's
an enticing density of texture to the music, and Mercer's bleak lyrics are too
obscure not to be intriguing. And yet, there's something about this album that
militates against devotion: a coolness that dampens the indie-pop energy and
threatens to leave listeners entirely unmoved.
Guardian Unlimited © Guardian News and Media Limited
2007
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