The first few seconds thrillingly announce that-- wow of wows-- Mirah is being backed by Danielson and indie mysticism will never be the same! Then the listener remembers that Mirah's new record is with Spectratone International, and that its deadpanfully educational take on insect life makes the listener regret wishing that more bands would attempt pedagogy-jams. Los Angeles' Bodies of Water pummels past many more obvious/awesome points of comparison during the course of this preachtastic album-- their reverent throat-throng approach evokes a Monotheistic Spree, their anthemic exponential subchoruses harken back to that first New Pornographers record, and their rousing, art-pop-rock-alyptic ambition suggests an Arcade Fire sparked by a burning bush. And after you accept the wall of vocals into your heart, you've still got to deal with arrangements equal parts Ennio Morricone, Godspell, classic punk, and Ben-Hur soundtrack. Pretty much relentless, this stuff, helped along in tone by a sleeve photo of a celebrant accidentally busting someone in the face while throwing out a joyous arm.

And lo, this act piles on the 'tude. They won't guarantee what tee-shirt color you'll get if you order from their web site, which instructs you to "deal with it." Bandleader David Metcalf also offers an online quiz called "What is wrong with you" that asks you to "choose" a picture each from four pairs. The results section assigns respondents a damning "type." For example: "Type 10-- You are a reactionary. You have limited understanding of issues and make snap judgements based on the vaguest of malformed impressions. You've found that although you cannot make a cogent, rational case for your opinions, people listen to you because you are so emphatic." That emphaticness reminds me of a certain band's music. Or "Type 13-- You are bored and listless, yet have neither the courage nor cleverness to change the current state of your life. You have become accustomed to a certain standard of comfort and affluence, and the prospect of frittering this away in pursuit of a future whose grass (you fear) only seems greener is terrible to you."

Also terrible, to most freethinking folks, is the import of what their MySpace page used to say: The band "believe(s) that the purpose of life is to align one's individual will with that of God in both thought and deed." Now their page quotes soap-saint Dr. Bronner and proclaims that, "Comfort engenders complacency and neglect, while dissatisfaction/ingratitude begets cruelty and self-absorption." Hey folks, while you're acting like highlanders whose souls never itch or stink, you might consider abandoning Rupert Murdoch's "place for friends," which reeks of mortality. As the ghost of Judas wails in Jesus Christ Superstar, the lamb itself sidestepped hype machines: "Israel in 4 BC had no mass communication!"

But what a cycle of songs. Throughout, the female vox vary from Go! Team yippeeism to a gloriously bent/oversung mode that approximates Cars/Rentals synths. "Our Friends Appear Like The Dawn" sweeps through seven major bible happenings in the first four verses as it uses the plight of Moses to curiously beg the "Lord" for an swift end to humanity, which is presented as a kind of botched narrative thread. "These Are The Eyes" is an e.e. cummings-quoting basher that'll have you chanting a line you do not at all understand ("Nature forgave but I cannot forget") with military seriousness. "I Turned My Face" could be about a husband choosing his wife (Metcalf's spouse Meredith sings and plays organ) over his faith, or about Christ protecting his (according to scripture) bride, the church, from God's unbearable light, and it ends with a triumphant eleven-bandmember swoon that may as well be soundtracking a Western about the Pixies. "Roar, Roar, Roar" succeeds with the same trick; its speakers "trudge," adorned with "filth and grime," as they await a "dude"-- it works as a chronicle of dreading both monogamy and messiah. The subsequent "Here Comes My Hand" continues expounding on this idea that William Butler Yeats and the Christopher Walken Prophecy movies got most right: if you honestly lend your imagination to this mythology, it'd be fucking awful to meet an eternal being from heaven, to whom you'd be like a gnat they couldn't flick for fear of squishing.

While the majestic Ears Will Pop & Eyes Will Blink is overtly ideologically orthodox enough to appeal to your fundie friend who answers the phone, "Heaven-o," it is less sane and reasonable than, say, the work of Sufjan Stevens. At points it seems to be attempting to reconcile transcendentalism with Christianity, while at other points it argues (via the words and their explosive speak-power-to-power delivery/accompaniment) for further radicalizing. "We Are Co-Existors" sounds like a Lennon-esque peaceful protest at its utopian outset ("living here below together/ straining against our worldly tethers") but erupts into resonant, infectious, separatist dogma ("all resisting Satan's fingers...Holding hands while in the furnace").

Eros even dips an earthy toe into the proceedings. Though "boots that are knocking" get presented as a bad thing on an early track, the hottest line of the year (unless you're vegan) is this bit from "It Is Familiar": "When you bend over into the fridge/ And try to grab some Tupperware/ I'll surprise you and pour the half and half/ Onto your newly sunburned neck." This builds to lotion and "slick arms" and "coming soft down," only to suckerpunch with the sermonizing "You were tricked at some point/ And stopped becoming/ The way that you've been all along." The listener too feels duped, but by a truth? This rampagingly assured disc is humiliating to merely discuss via laptop, but nothing can prevent its slouch toward Bethlehem to be blogged.