Popcorn Noises

Harlem - Hippies

I’ve been meaning to get to this one ever since it came out at the beginning of April. Not that it’s especially ‘important’ or culturally noteworthy—hence my giving priority to LCD, the National, Sleigh Bells, etc.—but, somewhat inexplicably, it still hasn’t left regular earbud rotation. I tend to think of it in similar terms as At Echo Lake: an album that some people are talking about, but it’s not a subject for widespread fawning or snarky detraction, one that lays out a rather simple agenda and does a good job of living up to it. It’s occasionally brilliant, seldom disappointing, but mostly it’s just really good. It raises a lot of the same questions of taste and appeal that Woods did, but it’s less of a secretive mystery and more of a what-you-see-is-pretty-much-what-you-get collection of tunes.

That’s probably the best way to think of Hippies, too, as a bunch of songs strung together instead of an album with variance and purpose. The Texans in Harlem aren’t interested in saying anything that can’t be said in three minutes or less, which makes these songs mix tape fodder of the highest order. Their sleazy, raw brand of earworming garage punk is not too far removed from The Black Lips at their most clean and direct. A certain loose sense of humor works its way in as well, with Michael Coomer and Curtis O’Mara’s scratchy dude-rock voices slyly mocking themselves. “My basketball team’s name is Gay Human Bones,” wails Coomer on one standout, forcing a head-scratching lyric through a delivery usually reserved for, y’know, passionate things.

Opener “Someday Soon” finds Coomer reveling in the dark glee of withholding water from someone who’s caught fire. The revenge-fantasy humor is jet black, but the song’s construction is breezy, melodic, and turns on dime (see: when they kick into double time). Harlem may sound loose and sloppy, but they know how to build a seamless, streamlined tune. O’Mara pokes fun at his own pasty reclusiveness on “Friendly Ghost” amid perfectly placed ascending and descending bass / guitar lines on the chorus. “I’m just as see-through as Casper,” he laments, “I’ll probably disappear tonight.” Take his whining seriously at your own risk. Another exhibit: “My friends think I’m a fool / they think my head’s full of shit / I know that it’s not true / ain’t got a thing to do with me,” goes one section in the arpeggiated “Torture Me,” as O’Mara paints himself as a victim in order to gain sympathy he would otherwise never get. It almost works, too, with the way he wails, “Why do you torture me, girl?” near the song’s end.

But don’t think it’s all snotty in-jokes on Hippies. Harlem casually throw in a few sentiments that sound direct, genuine, and irony-free (if slightly simplistic). “I met the girl from my dreams / she’s down in New Orleans,” goes the refrain of “Number One,” in which O’Mara is instantly smitten by a random girl who asks him to take a picture of her with her camera. “Three Legged Dog” sways along on a late 50s slow dance vibe as the band faces the harsh realities of life on the road with weary optimism—“It’s cool, we’ll come back soon / but I sure will be missing you.” The slow burn of “Prairie My Heart” packs as epic and heavy a sweep as Harlem can muster into three minutes of rollicking, but to my ear it’s “Be Your Baby” that locates the most interesting balance of content. “I just wanna be your baby / I don’t mean maybe,” sings Coomer over a bouncy pop beat and skeletal strums, “If I could be your darlin’ / you gotta start fallin’ / for all the bullshit I give you.” Sure, it’s delivered with a wink and a self-deprecating smile, but it’s also a concealed admission of guilt and a tacit apology for being so difficult. It’d be an endearing approach even if it stopped there, but Coomer goes a step further by acknowledging the rote familiarity of the situation (and the song itself) when he sneers, “Drive your car from A to B / play guitar from G to C / write a song about how much you hate me.” It’s not quite on the intellectual level of something like the Pixies’ “La La Love You,” but it’s closely related. Love songs are silly, but they’re kinda all we have.

“Poolside” closes out this 16-song hit parade with one more upbeat ploy for our allegiance. “Way to twist my words and make me into a jerk / but try some sympathy and see if that works,” growls Coomer as he gets caught checking out a girl sunbathing. In his defense, he offers this: “Try to imagine yourself as the wolf / ‘cause I wanna be with you / even as I look away.” Truth be told we don’t have a lot of reasons to support these scrappy, sleazy kids, but their knack for melody and instrumental lack of pretense—no thick stew of overblown noise or juiced ‘psychedelic’ echoes like a lot of their peers—make them charmingly direct. They’re the provocative class clowns you can’t help but secretly root for, and they reward our patience with some of the most addicting songs around.