Pitchfork

Well, it appears that the winter has relinquished its grey grip from my personal neck of the woods, a sure signal that it's finally time to review Dream City Film Club.

I've been listening to this disc a lot, and I have mixed feelings about it that I'm going to share with you. First, it's dark. Very dark. The best comparisons I can think of would be the Cure's most dissonant stuff from earlier records, think "10:15 Saturday Night" and you'll be in the right ballpark. Galloping tempos framed by shrill organ tones and guitar shrieks characterize the album, with moments of sudden clarity and unison. Just as suddenly as the sounds gel, they disintegrate again. Michael Sheehey's passionately tart vocals are the perfect creep-out complement to the instrumental arrangements. They make a haunting collection of songs which could be hastily pigeonholed into an unpleasant category, but leave a lasting impression when considered carefully (as your trusty reviewer is wont to do, on your modest behalf). It's got a weird flavor of goth sprayed all over it... goth is still around, right?

Overall, it comes across as a pretty good album, but will you listen to it? Well, to speak to the earnest and ever- pandered- to Lowest Common Denominator, the answer is no. It's a bummer. But, speaking to the earnest and never- pandered- to goth listener with old Cure roots, don't throw away those torn stockings yet! This is for you.