Pitchfork

I can think of no record in recent memory that illustrates the dubiousness of hyper-catchiness as much as the debut LP from Call and Response. Initially, the five piece's hook-laden record, which lyrically tackles hard-hitting issues such as bubble-blowing, rollerskating, colors, and stars with eyes, didn't appeal. It was so cheerful and sunny that I feared my eyes might start bleeding. After a few more listens, though, that potential blood turned to the joyous tears that can only result from being charmed by the social awareness of five-year-olds. "Rad," I said during an umpteenth listen, between jubilant sobs. "I'm fascinated by its love."

Fast-forward to now, one week later. I haven't had the chance during the past seven days to revisit these adorable tykes. But you know, I don't really miss them. Sure, I'll hum a melody on occasion, or have a giggle over a lyric or two, but the impulse to actually listen to the record again never resurfaces. Why? Let's just say top 40 radio does it better, and without the adult-proof CandyLand gimmickry.

But I suppose this sort of reaction is inevitable when the nature of Call and Response's music is taken into consideration. The band has already been likened to the Mamas and the Papas, and the Archies; both are fair enough reference points, though I don't recall any white-funk basslines burbling under "Dedicated to the One I Love." "Nightflight," for example, plays like a suburban take on Jean Knight's "Mr Big Stuff," complete with throwaway lyrics like, "Then I knew/ It was you/ Who had a different point of view/ And I paid no mind/ To the soul I lost inside." The song is as trite, non-specific, and meaningless as anything at the top of the Billboard singles chart.

The remaining material is true to the form of "Nightflight." The record's opener, "Blowin' Bubbles," is a lite groove that sports male/female vocals singing, "I'm drinkin' stars up in the sky/ You know who you are/ I'm drivin' cars around your house/ It seems so far." Meanwhile, the chorus of "Rollerskate" bestows wisdom like, "Before you learn how to walk/ Before you learn how to walk/ You learn to rollerskate/ Hey." Call and Response would have me convinced that they're just trying to be cute and ironic with lines like this if it weren't for the impossibly straightforward vocal and musical delivery. Songs that could be prime examples of well-realized nonsense, a la Ween or "Sifl and Olly," simply are not.

This makes for an album that's lean, unobtrusive, and largely slight. The songs may be infectious, but this isn't as much a product of fine songwriting as an exercise in smart calculation. I'd be an elitist liar if I said that catchy, nothing pop songs don't have the tendency to make me swoon. Still, however strong an immediate visceral reaction may be, awareness of pending expiration is essential.

Call and Response are a brief flash of enjoyable fluff. And that may be the band's very aim; to create utterly disposable, formulaic echoes of yesteryear's pop hits. Even so, we've already been taught this lesson countless times, and it's even more resounding when delivered with sincerity. Really! When Andy Gibb proclaimed, "I just want to be your everything," millions of girls around the world were instantly wooed, praying that his piercing wails were unleashed for them alone. So, Call and Response can wax reminiscent all they want, but their unknown status-- in the indie world and otherwise-- suggests that nostalgia will never be on their side.