Pitchfork

Everyone Who Pretended to Like Me Is Gone was among my favorite records from 2002; the debut full-length was warmly luminous, equal parts humility and grandeur. The Walkmen tiptoed where other bands stomp, and if they broke a few eggshells, they did so only when least expected, and in a strangely elegant manner. Their hollow, reverberating guitars and "cinematic" atmosphere earned a few apt comparisons to War- or Joshua Tree-era U2-- keyboards aren't made that placid, or guitars that jangly, by accident, folks-- but this comparison still strikes me as ridiculous. I might be more willing to accept the parallels had U2 played Christmas music in Vaudeville; I know the song's called "The Blizzard of '96", but the last time I heard so many bells was on a sleigh ride to grandma's house.

The first album was a process of trial and error, with the desire to make music taking precedence over a clear goal, and even then they were impressive. Now, exactly one infamous car commercial later, The Walkmen find themselves signed to the Jason Dill-affiliated Record Collection label, which means a distribution deal through Warner Bros, and for the first time, a kung-fu grip on their sophisticated, fragile-yet-aggressive aesthetic. Despite the consistency of Everyone, it tended to drift aimlessly through pastoral passages, which were sometimes charming but just as often faceless next to highly structured compositions like the incomparable "We've Been Had", or "Wake Up"; on Bows and Arrows, every moment feels deliberate and meaningful.

But "what's in it for me?" laments Hamilton Leithauser, commiserating with a doleful church organ and trembling, sorry plinks of their now-famously ancient piano, as he opens the album. Well, quite a lot, actually; with so much poised and in place, this is as close to a career-defining moment as any band is likely to have, but if the guys are nervous, they aren't letting on. The easy ebb and flow of "What's in It for Me?" is disarmingly comfortable. "I came here for a good time/ Now you're tellin' me to leave/ Well, I heard you the first time," he sings, casually prodding that sense of resigned disappointment everyone's felt at one time or another, and simultaneously reassuring that it'll eventually pass. Maybe the improbable and correspondingly short-lived signing of Jonathan Fire*Eater (elder project of three-out-of-five Walkmen) served as preparation for this moment on the cusp, but their confidence is overwhelming. Their extreme lack of urgency is enthralling, and paradoxically, more of a wake-up call to listeners than any sort of chest-thumping, browbeating assault.

The Walkmen refuse to be rushed; they have the acumen to overwhelm, but only when they're good and ready. Although the delicate sheen of more relaxed numbers like the beautifully faded bar-room regret of "138th Street", the supersilent "Hang On, Siobhan", or even the comparatively cheerful piano-tinkling of "New Year's Eve" is impressive, with a focus that would shame most of the interim tracks from Everyone, the few rock standouts are seemingly miles out of their league. The entire record buckles from the force of "The Rat"; guitars pound tirelessly forward, and Matt Barrick's brilliant, relentless drumming becomes truly demoniacal. Tortured, sleepless, Leithauser screams for retribution, or even simple recognition: "Can't you hear me when I'm calling out your name?"

"The Rat" could be The Walkmen's finest moment, if they didn't immediately surpass it with "Little House of Savages", which most clearly demonstrates how immeasurably these guys have tightened as a band. Paul Maroon leads with a cyclical riff as the band unloads their full inventory of aggressive histrionics into the resulting hypnotically tangled mess, like a rock 'n' roll fire sale. I'll even concede that Leithauser's voice now actually merits, albeit rarely, an occasional allusion to Bono (if crossed with a gravel pit); when The Walkmen are in full-on assault mode, the vocal comparison doesn't seem quite so silly.

With just these two songs, the vast refinement demonstrated on all the comparatively subdued tracks comes dangerously close to being nullified-- it's all too easy to overlook the wealth of great material in the massive shadow of just these two songs (the wistful "Thinking of a Dream" is energetic, but also pales in comparison), but listen closer: On such a triumphant album, The Walkmen don't succumb to filler. Each of these songs displays a mastery of craft rarely heard, and while not all strike with the same immediacy of its two unbreakable watersheds, each quickly reveals itself as equally forcible and infectious. Beyond this, no grandiose claims warrant stating; Bows and Arrows states them itself.

 

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