Pitchfork

Warning: There will be an excess of namedrops in this review.

French Montreal's Malajube (say it MAL-a-zhoob) are one of those bands with a really flexible RIYL line. It's not that they're derivative-- the inventive arrangements and zealous intensity of their second album make it difficult to countenance any suspicions of opportunistic hit-knitting. But their approach to indie rock is so resolutely of-the-moment that it seems filled with hyper-modern allusions. Malajube's music is labyrinthine, filled with multi-directional trapdoors-- some drop down to lower landings of the songs; some let out into realms recently conquered by other indie heroes (particularly of the Polaris Prize-nominated variety).

More than a Montreal music digest, Malajube's magpie sensibility spreads their matrix of association across national borders. They're more French than Phoenix, but they share a knack for stringing together terrific, self-contained moments: The songs don't progress so much as chain-react, each part exploding out of the last. They have the ramshackle exuberance of Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, with raw production that complements the music's blistering energy-- vocals float in the middle distance; corkscrew guitars bleed everywhere; percussion rattles deliriously. Of course, this good-friends/good-times quality can't help but resemble Broken Social Scene, while the periodic screamy avant-pop parts conjure up Animal Collective by way of Wolf Parade, and the bracing moments of unhinged beauty and collective transportation call to mind Tilly and the Wall.

But however distinct an affinity Malajube shares with those bands, this is only good for a general idea of what to expect-- what actually happens in the songs is what makes them worth listening to over and over. On "Montreal-40 Degrees C", a fey vocal harmony and a squelchy keyboard cut arabesques around bright yet muffled guitars; a low chanting vocal line and a histrionic one splatter around the central quickstep; overall, it's a dreamy melody tweaked to a hyperactive bounce, blissing out in a wash of choral harmonies.

"La Monogamie" shows how Malajube's unimpeachable melodies can hold even the most disparate moods together-- beginning at a pensive canter, its pastoral acoustic line bursts into a sneer; bedtime-comfy vocals nestle easily against emphatic bellows, then woozy harmonies brush over an airy refrain, ramping up together until they snap into a crashing adieu. "Le Crabe" extends and retracts like a spring, shifting effortlessly between a sultry shuffle and hard-charging indie rock blossoming with chiming frictions. "Fille à Plumes" is an electrified screamer that wouldn't have been out of place on M83's Before the Dawn Heals Us, with a UFO invasion's worth of squealing bolts and trilled zaps, drenched as always in lurid melody.

Stark contrast is one of Malajube's best assests, and it doesn't get much starker than between "Fille à Plumes" and the subsequent "Casse-Cou"; a ghostly box step where funereal arpeggios twist into bass-driven helixes of weird falsetto harmonies. In the album's variegated context, even the jaunty barrelhouse piano and salty doo-wop of "Ton Plat Favori" work, as does the spooky tweaker disco of "La Russe". Even a passing knowledge of French will reveal that the contrast between the bright music and the lyrics is just as pronounced-- the songs are flecked with black blood, white worms, dogs that sing like cats, broken necks, shit, skeletons, phantoms, and nightmares. But there's also plenty of dancing, which seems more germane to this celebratory, uninhibited album than its goth-grim content.