Pitchfork

If Jeff Mangum had never been born, Colin Meloy could have assumed Jeff Mangum's current status as indie rock's consummate pop songwriter freak. Which, of course, would mean some other wild-eyed kid from Montana would have had to be Colin Meloy. The Real Meloy, in this Trading Places-themed Twilight Zone, would have filled in for Mangum's nasal warble and given the world the sweet gift of In the Aeroplane Over the Sea with his band Neutral Milk Hotel, while New Guy would front a band named, say, The Decemberists, who would shamelessly mine the sparkly folk-fuzz (sans-fuzz) of that most lauded of Elephant 6 bands. The Decemberists would be a tad poppier, and maybe a tad sweeter than their key influence, but fronted by a voice so close to Mangum's that few could tell the difference. Some say this may even have actually happened. Some say it's happening right now.

Such a mix-up is understandable (even if it may seem quite the opposite on paper): The Decemberists stick to the same kind of heavy acoustic folk-rock and freakish lyrical balladry that fueled Neutral Milk Hotel's rise to power. Fortunately, their music also possesses enough unique twists to distinguish it from simple mimicry. The most obvious is the band's often baroque instrumentation, which generally makes for more elaborate arrangements than those of their stylistic forbearer. Hammond organ and subtle theremin flesh out the mix, each adding an anachronistic spin on the otherwise quaint jangle of strings and guitars hearkening to some dusty, distant past. Melodic organ riffs, meanwhile, slightly warp the old-time illusion of the music-- the better to compliment the absurd, rag-tag world at the center of this band's dreamy fictionalizations.

The Decemberists' is a land of ghosts and petticoats, "crooked French-Canadians" gut-shot while running gin, bedwetters and gentlemen suitors, abandoned wastrels and pickpockets. It's also a realm of bizarre historical dreamscapes and snazzy wordplay: "And just to lie with you/ There's nothing that I wouldn't do/ Save lay my rifle down," sings Meloy in the bittersweet hallucination "Here I Dreamt I Was an Architect". Time and again, these unhappy tales and fantastic allegories ring out over strangely soothing, rolling folk that seldom breaks from a dense, melancholy haze.

Only once does Castaways and Cutouts fully escape the hypnotic pull of its darkling bedtime stories; "July, July!" may be the album's only genuinely happy moment, decked out in lush harmonies and fly-away choruses that clip their wings just shy of soaring towards anything too grand. And the band actually makes this singular elated moment stick by remaining reasonably understated-- despite the temptation there must have been to launch into a full-on celebration in the midst of such omnipresent malaise, the song is content to simply smile, permeating the surrounding bleakness with a subtle aura of peaceful contentment.

The constant sobriety of the rest of these tracks does wear thin now and then-- the inclusion of another similarly uplifting tune might have made the record somewhat more effective-- but the somber fables of Castaways and Cutouts remain compelling nonetheless. The Decemberists rarely put forth individually gripping songs, yet somehow, the result is a remarkable whole, an autonomous unit. From the opening cry of, "My name is Leslie Anne Levine/ My mother birthed me down a dry ravine," to the album's exhausting conclusion, the fever never breaks. So, if Jeff Mangum really is on permanent vacation, we're going to need a successor. Few bands seem as worthy of inheriting his twisted empire as The Decemberists.