Pitchfork

Are the manifold manifestations of twee the most fearsome boogieman facing rock music? Did you frame that Sasha Frere-Jones article where he complained about indie not being black enough? Ever consider buying a Decemberists concert ticket just for chance to get a clean shot at Colin Meloy? You should probably just stop reading right now. Odds are, this very site is reviewing four other records that you'll almost certainly like more than this one.

Okay, are they gone yet? Great. Admittedly, the old-salt seafarer archetype may as well be the paleface dope boy at this point in terms of tired ubiquity, and All We Could Do Was Sing is built on the very things that tend to keep the rhythm bandits at bay: massed choruses, prop pieces, nautical terminology, female bandmembers. The good news is that the band's official debut (following the 2007 collection Wind And The Swell) is still a solid art-pop album at its core, and importantly, more American Gangster than The Crane Wife-- i.e., though anchored by a central narrative and supported by enough real life experience to tell the tale, Port O'Brien weaves its way in and out of the story whenever it's convenient. Which I suppose would make the heaving, power-chorded scene dismissal "Pigeonhold" Port O'Brien's "Ignorant Shit"-- an album highlight of playful venom that couldn't have less to do with the actual concept, which wraps up with the scratchy Exxon barb "Valdez" ("There's no way they can repay the sea/ There's about two million ways you could repay me").

It's a lyrical deception that carries throughout, particularly on "Fisherman's Son", which, despite being something an autobiographical retelling of cannery work in Alaska, is actually more of a country mouse/city mouse examination of the universal burden of living up to or breaking free of familial expectations. Likewise, the slowly rising string drama of "Stuck on a Boat" could just as easily be an allegory transferable to titles like "Stuck in a Cubicle".

While those two in particular manage to retain a rickety, unkempt charm, Port O'Brien come perilously close to running aground on obvious influences. "Don't Take My Advice", cop of Modest Mouse's "Perfect Disguise" and all, is one of the more lethargic odes to wandering eyes you'll ever hear, dragging ass too heavily to really chase it, and "In Vino Veritas" finds Red Hot Chili Peppers' "Otherside" ambling on a horse with no name. Of course, if you want to paint these guys as another teetering collective gassed off Arcade Fire fumes, overlong interlude "The Rooftop Song" serves up a softball c&w approximation of "Wake Up" for your convenience.

But Port O'Brien know how to win skeptics over, a good trait to have when you're touring with sonically similar bands like Rogue Wave. This album is bookended by the most propulsive tracks-- "Close The Lid" does a wide-eyed scamper through its deceptively roomy five-minutes, latching on to a ragged guitar hook amidst the torrent. But if they don't appeal to you in the first four minutes, odds are they won't at all-- "I Woke Up Today" is a mission statement and a summation, a sticky acoustic motif over relentless drums, the group singing in chorus the whole time, echoing the main theme of its title by rhyming it with "in a very simple way." Turns out Port O'Brien take to the sea for the same reasons many do-- either as an escape or a search for some sort of cosmic truth.