Woaaaaah, we used to dream... now we worry about dyin'...
The ecstatic joy I feel when I listen to this album is comparable to a very parallel pit of misery and dread. When the fuzz takes over, and the guitars are blaring like sirens, and all the lyrics are shouted messily, I lose myself to a sense of recklessness. Something about the quality of the recording (shit, in a good way) and the energy (imagine pulsing strobe lights and sweaty young 20-somethings in some rank, dingy dive bar) is perfection. I usually reserve that particular descriptor to shiny powerpop or shimmering vocal harmonies. But this is perfection in a new way - the kind that grows from its own flaws.
"Young Hearts Spark Fire" plays on my iPod on repeat. Deep within myself, desires for a simpler time crawl out of my ears. Nights of no sleep, drinking and puking and just not caring. Oblivion. Spontaneity. Ears ringing. Thirst.
"Wet Hair" is a pure ode to selfish, lusty adventure.
She had wet hair
Say what you will
I don't care
I couldn't resist it
These girls are raw
We need a ride to Bikini Island
We want them common
Let's get to France
So we can French kiss some French girls
Japandroids are smart, despite vapid lyrics and the occasional shallow desire. They combine in a unique way. First, there are movable guitar lines, melodic and sweet and edgy. The vocals always repeat, not only the same words, but the same notes. Great for shouting along, even if you can't sing. Heavy drums, thump-a-thump, cymbals everywhere, like a circus.
What's more, everything is done in like-i-give-a-shit style. Messy. Lo-fi. Cool enough for the too-cool kids. Musical enough for the rest of us. A mistake? Maybe. Brilliant? Probably.