Pitchfork

If a Philly-based band has a clip from The New York Times to its credit before ever playing a gig outside the Northeastern U.S., they must be doing something right. Right? Well, in Dr. Dog's case, it seems more like they have a superfriend in Times music critic Kelefa Sanneh. He describes the group's modestly sized fan base as "rabid." The way Sanneh goes on about Dr. Dog in his December 2004 article, it sounds like he might need to be put down. He paints the group's live sets, filled with "off-kilter ballads and light-headed riff-rock," as these incendiary experiences that inspire converts to follow the group from gig to gig, basking in musical glory that the greater world will soon wear all over its face. Maybe there is a transcendent moment to be had with this group in a live setting, with the beer and the dancing and the cramped quarters and the tinnitus-triggering volume. Or maybe you need to get your drink on to stomach this stuff.

The fact that Easy Beat contains a lot of the ramshackle hallmarks that can turn a live performance from charming to annoying-- interband whooping and hollering, sloppy playing, players really feeling moments that the crowd's not feeling, etc.-- does the group no favors. And then there's the matter of the good Dr. working through a predominant and stultifying influence. On this record, moments abound that call to mind one of the crappiest made-up adjectives to be found in popular music writing-- "Beatlesesque". Whipping out that bon mot in a piece of writing is akin to mailing it in, since the Beatles' presence is pervasive (and widely acknowledged) throughout pop music. Liberal employment of this term in the service of describing bands that don't actually sound like the Beatles adds to the word's burgeoning obsolescence.

That said, if there's any group worthy of shouldering this questionable descriptor, then let it be these cats. It starts with the limbo-low fidelity, which sounds like the work of George Martin if he was forced to record with the Moutain Goats' ghetto blaster. Then you can play "Name That Tune!" That silly walking bassline in "The World May Never Know"? "Ob La Di, Ob La Da"! The string section break in "Oh No"? "Eleanor Rigby"! The shout-along coda in "Wake Up"? "Hey Jude"! The sleepy torpor of "Dutchman Falls"? "I'm So Tired"! (The tuba is a nice touch, though.) And how about that unhinged flip-flopping between over-amped organ blooz and the twee song bits? Hey, it's time for the Abbey Road medley!

Instances like those are like the moments in a movie where suspension of disbelief is dispelled-- they take you out of the moment and ruin the experience. No doubt better production (something possibly outside the group's purview right now) or stronger songwriting (something the group can better control) would hide these things, but on Easy Beat, they're front and center like mondo-sized zits. Next time, more bits like the spry first third of "Oh No" and the rave-up in "Say Something", please. Save the guitar weeping and the Ringo drumming for the tribute shows. And if you, dear reader, happen to find yourself at a bar or club amidst this hirsute group and their whirling dervish fans, give them a wide berth and order another round.