Pitchfork

You'd have to be pretty heartless to hate a purdy little folk album like Human Like a House. For one thing, the San Franciscan duo the Finches stick to a bare-boned style that's loyal to the genre's oldest roots-- we're talking troubadour music here. They even break into "Auld Lang Syne" midway through one track. On their entire innocuous debut, there's not a single musical curveball-- not even one syncopated note-- that'd catch a listener off guard, mainly because jolting the listener would rudely distract him or her from one of singer Carolyn Pennypacker Riggs's heartwarming lyrical tales. However, like mom and pop stores or VHS cassettes, the Finches have trouble competing with 21st century innovations and trends, and Human's backward thinking, front-porch-rocking-chair charisma pales in comparison to more progressive folk contemporaries.

Riggs and childhood chum/guitarist Aaron Morgan rely exclusively on a two-guitar formula that seldom strays from a beginner's chord book, making them pretty anachronistic at a time when most "folk" exposure comes via Animal Collective or Joanna Newsom. Even the most wholesome, grassroots indie acts would only record one or two songs like these per album, mainly as novelty. As admirable as the Finches' dedication to simplicity may be, the three-chord limitation bleeds most of the songs together, or, even worse, renders them indistinguishable from lullabies or nursery rhymes. Human does have its bright spots, and, no surprise, they occur on the most nuanced tracks. "Last Favor" tumbles over one of the album's few basslines, and Morgan's backup vocals help amplify some of Riggs's sharpest hooks. Likewise, Riggs's haunting coos on "The House Under the Hill" manage to capture the otherwise painfully absent sense of mysticism and wonder that should be a gimme for folk.

Unfortunately, these highlights fail to offset the album's supposed centerpieces. "Nightswimming, AR" has all the trappings of a show-stopping ballad, replete with nostalgic kiss-and-tell lyrics and Riggs' intimate half-sung, half-whispered melody. However, the track fails musically to make the sultry story compelling as the guitars move through one predictable chord after another. Likewise, the sentimental "Leviathans Home!" closes an album that already has eleven other wistful closers willing to bid the listener a tender adieu. This emotional flatline best underscores House's laundry list of shortcomings as an album not entirely guilty of simplicity or folk fundamentalism, but rather the Finches' ennui in delivering it. Sadly, the title falsely advertises, suggesting a record that captures the human condition. Instead, we get an album as mechanical and soulless as a computer-generated simulation.