Pigeons by Here We Go Magic
LABEL: Secretly Canadian

The brainchild of veteran Brooklyn-based indie-folkie Luke Temple, Here We Go Magic’s modest origins lie in a lambent debut recorded entirely by the artist in his Greenpoint loft in 2008. Although the eponymously-titled debut garnered a modicum of critical praise from the usual suspects, in a year dominated by the histrionic furor of Girls, a plethora of 80s throwbacks a la the XX, and what can only be classified under the rubric of “weird electro shit” (from the epochal Merriweather Post… to the underground currents of Fuck Buttons and Neon Indian), Temple’s breathy opus was bound to be lost in the shuffle. Although the expected comparisons to the Grizzly Bear/Department of Eagles/Owen Pallett axis were made—in fact, Ed Droste professed to be quite enamored of the album when I interviewed him that winter—songs like “Ahab” seemed to eschew their effete earnestness in favor of a more languid, ethereal vibe reminiscent of John Martyn and Robert Wyatt, all fetid guitar scrunches over Crosbyian high harmonies.

“Temple puts his mouth where his band’s name is: he wants us to have fun, as inconceivable and untenable as that may be in these dolorous times.”

With Pigeons, the Here We Go Magic moniker has grown to encompass the full touring band that has accompanied Temple for the past year and a half, and like any artist worth his salt, he has expanded his palette thusly, shifting gears from archetypal lo-fi to a more baroque approach that recalls everything from Another Green World to Skylarking-era XTC. In an era where the shelf-stability of many indie bands is precarious at best, this was an audacious risk; luckily for the listener, the first dividends of his fecklessness can be found in the slightly askew funk-pop of “Hibernation”, where a slinky bass groove vaguely redolent of Eno’s “On Fire Island” underpins vaguely intelligible pastoral lyrics over glimmering keyboards. With so many releases this year (Foxes in Fiction, Joanna Newsom, even Titus Andronicus) embracing the funereal—or at the least, the trepidation of melancholia—Temple puts his mouth where his band’s name is: he wants us to have fun, as inconceivable and untenable as that may be in these dolorous times. When the most recondite thing here is the cover art—a notch or two above typical hipster expressionism, I must concede—you know you’re in for a swell time.

When they aren’t lost in full-bore Small Faces analog miasmas and treading the line between experimentation and bombast on the musically luscious “Collector” and “Surprise”, the artist and his confederates are furtively assertive with respect to dynamic range, reaffirming the album’s overall tenor while concurrently asserting so much more. “Bottom Feeder”, seemingly a commentary on the vicissitudes of the music business—or at least one hopes it is, considering how undervalued Temple’s talents are—is a plaintive ballad arranged in a simple guitar/bass/drums configuration; with no frills for once, he still pulls it off. On the other end of the spectrum, second-siders like “F.F.A.P” and “Vegetable or Native” retreat to the milieu of the debut, even as the former includes a walloping guitar solo (when was the last time you heard one of those?) and the latter’s odd percussion acoutrements add just the right dollop of extra verve.

Don’t let the proverbial hype machine deter you from this slightly hallucinogenic path—Temple is clearly on to something here, even if the annals of time will ultimately judge its profundity. In the meanwhile, enjoy one of the more venturesome pop recordings of 2010.


REVIEWED BY SEAN MURPHY
SEAN’S FAVORITE TRACKS: “Bottom Feeder”, “Vegetable or Native”, “Hibernation”


MP3: “Collector” (right-click & save) 
MP3: “Casual” (right-click & save)