Yahoo! Music Album Review

Released on 29/01/07
Label: Rough Trade

The Decemberists are the brainchild of Portland-based songwriter Colin Meloy. Meloy's interests include 8th century poetry, singing in a North American-oldie-worldie-British-accent and prog rock. If the first two didn't send most people running to the hills screaming "Please, God, no", then surely the thought of prog rock in the hands of someone with an affinity for 8th century poetry must have. No? Then what about the news that when performing, The Decemberists like to dress-up in civil war costumes as they sing songs of soldiers dying on battle fields to Irish jigs and acoustic folk, albeit with a prog rock bias?

For sure, The Decemberists theatrical indie rock isn't for everyone, straying as they do from the margins of the mainstream all the way into the dark abyss of niche music. And clearly, fourth album, "The Crane Wife", loosely based on an ancient Japanese folk tale involving a crane (of the bird variety), an arrow (of the bow &… variety) and a beautiful maiden (of the, every folk story has one variety) won't do anything to halt the scoffing of those who like to ridicule such revivalists. In fact, it hands them a wealth of ammunition.

Yet strip away the laboured sepia-toned packaging - the morality tales and sea-dog story telling, the quivering voices and talk of "Forty winking in the belfry" - and "The Crane Wife" has an appeal way beyond that of The Decemberists' current devotees. As it stands though, it's an album of two diametrically opposed halves.

The sea chantey story tellers on one side, delivering 12 minute, four part, mini-epics of acoustic murder ballads and intense whirring prog organ solos, are staunchly pulling The Decemberists back to the 19th century. At the other end of the rope, there's an MOR band who could take on The Beautiful South in the jaunty toe-tapper stakes, with the instantly loveable "O Valencia!", and at their very best, with the glistening "The Perfect Crime", could even match The Killers for all-out '80s stadium pop.

Whichever side you favour - and here's a clue, it should be the one living in the indie rock here and now - it's a tug of love which neither side wins, making the album as a whole hard to swallow. Those looking to immerse themselves in the escapism offered by the carefully curated folklore of "Shankhill Butchers", will find the grimy, distorted guitar chug of "When The War Came" somewhat shatters the illusion. Similarly, the easy rolling "Summersong", sweetly hazy-pop carried off with style, grace and subtlety, just makes the ham-fisted caricatures of yesteryear all the more difficult to take seriously.

    by Dan Gennoe