Pitchfork

It's not hate, it's practicality: The Walkmen's note-for-note reproduction of Harry Nilsson's Pussy Cats (and its accompanying DVD) is not being given away as a free download, nor as a CD-R at shows, a fan club release, or even a limited run-- they're just plain asking for your money on this. It'd be more forgivable if this record were bringing Nilsson's material to a new or wider audience, but despite the Walkmen playing illustrious venues like the Bait Shop, I'd guess the opposite is happening. The Walkmen's Pussy Cats is for the tiny sliver of the Venn diagram where fans of the original LP and long-established Walkmen fans intersect (and where this writer admittedly rests). The band's faithful recasting is a curio to Nilsson followers, and while it'll stir many fans to sing along, it's in all the same places they've been doing for years.

The story behind Nilsson's original is almost as good as the record: Nilsson was friendly with all the Beatles, but was far closer to (and owed more to) John Lennon than the rest. Nilsson was Lennon's main drinking buddy throughout the ex-Beatle's "Lost Weekend" period in L.A., a time when Lennon was separated from Yoko Ono and Pussy Cats came to fruition. When the two finally went into the studio with Lennon as producer, Nilsson's vocal cords ruptured, ruining his impressive higher register for the entirety of the session-- yet he never told Lennon, for fear the project would be halted. It goes to show how Nilsson valued and looked up to his friend, but also why he remained a cult figure despite writing huge hits, being loved by esteemed fellow artists like the Beatles, and remaining incredibly consistent as a songwriter (though the fact this album was originally to be called Strange Pussies is but one example of how Nilsson flouted record company wishes and public regard).

So there's a big reason why the Walkmen are a perfect fit for not just Nilsson, but for this album in particular, and it's not just that Hamilton Leithauser has a talent for sounding like his throat is scorched. The Walkmen cultivate the stubborn, lovable loser segment of Nilsson's persona on a microscale, eschewing structure and expectation from song to song where Nilsson did it album to album-- and we know that the Walkmen are just as capable of writing hits (see "The Rat") if they weren't following their own muse wherever it led and just being so goddamned stubborn. I'm a fan of every incidental noise on Bows and Arrows, but the band's (numerous) slow jams always have that last-call weave just as this particular record does, and anyone who's seen the Walkmen live know they're not afraid to put in a frazzled performance for the sake of spirit , even if they don't quite have the same command of their craft.

Or do they? It's funny how they can reproduce the sounds on the original Pussy Cats so accurately, from the strings on "Many Rivers to Cross" to the guitar tone in "Subterranean Homesick Blues", casting their other records as carefully arranged where they might have sounded vague and unfinished to casual listeners. Funnier that the only track here that sounds like the band themselves ("Black Sails") isn't even sung by Leithauser, but by Mazarin frontman Quentin Stoltzfus (the writer of "Another One Goes By", which the Walkmen cribbed to close A Hundred Miles Off). If I were the type to make assumptions, I'd be tempted to say the boys are having something of an identity crisis this year.

But I hated "Many Rivers to Cross" on first listen and I still do, just as I'm disappointed by "Subterranean Homesick Blues". Whether it was personality or just necessity under the circumstances, Nilsson's covers on this record were distinctive; the Walkmen just paint by numbers, despite that the canvas is unlimited. They were within their bounds to record these songs however they wanted, not just how Nilsson did. Ian Svenonius (of Nation of Ulysses, the Make-Up, etc.) shows up to add barely-noticeable backup to "Subterranean", though he's more audible on a duet of "Save the Last Dance" that sounds like it's being sung through a home karaoke shelf system while he and Leithauser sound appropriately inebriated.

Still, better they piss all over the source material than the stiff reverence of barroom ballads like "Don't Forget Me", "Old Forgotten Soldier", or even the sprightly teetotaler anthem "All My Life"-- even if the band nails them and Leithauser sounds more comfortable here than on much of his band's last record. Do they embarrass themselves? Not in the least. But they do raise the question of why this album even needs to be heard outside the band themselves, and why it should be in stores. The accompanying press will encourage letting them off easy by emphasizing that it's all in fun, and I'm not saying that's wrong-- I mean, one of them is dressed as a piece of fruit on the cover. It's supposed to be a lark, but rarely does the gaiety or spontaneity so evident on the original Pussy Cats shine through.

One exception: The album was recorded in the last days of the band's self-owned Marcata Studios before being torn down, and the drill sounds that open the final cut "Rock Around the Clock" could be the walls coming down as the band races through their last track, tripping over their feet in their final minutes of fun. Then, and pretty much only then, does something more than admiration materialize, and the band catches some of the intangible legend floating around Nilsson's output of the Pussy Cats era. Every booze-soaked bad idea is remembered the next day with half-grimace, half-impish grin-- there's always a thrill to know what you got away with that you may not have otherwise. This was all over Nilsson's album, and the Walkmen catch at least a glint of it here.