Wavves: King of the Beach (2010)

(Fat Possum)

RECOMMENDED

I really didn't want to enjoy this stupid record. Is that a terrible thing to say? Wavves' primary personality, Nathan Williams, comes off as a lifeless, unoriginal fucktard -- the kind of slacker that mainstream press was agog over in 1992 or so -- to the point that I wrote off his music before I even heard it. But as with peers and pals Best Coast, Wavves work in a vernacular that I'm sorry to say is dear to my heart. If anything, they're even more explicit about it, going so far as to sample the Crystals. King of the Beach, the most high-fidelity Wavves LP thus far, is too much of a pleasure for my cynicism to win out.

Back in January when someone told me surf-rock, perhaps the most antiquated of all subgenres (and one of my most beloved), was making a comeback, I scoffed; between this, Best Coast, and Surfer Blood, I'm starting to see their point. And not just because of the warped pothead "Wipeout" quote that opens "Idiot." These young bands don't operate in the surf music language as originally understood; Wavves really owes more to Blink 182 and Weezer than to Dick Dale, but the indie-surf acts have a command of rock & roll legacy as emotional vehicle that would have once doomed them to the power pop bargain bin ghetto. In a world of blog promotion, that isn't so, and a band like Wavves with a unique bent on established ideas can go much farther.

Of course, the reverse is also inevitable -- the populism of the internet allows some true wank to push its way into our consciousness. Wavves and Williams give us a representative slice of online-made rock stars at their best and worst. Worst because the vocals are tired and uncharmingly lazy, the songwriting lacks bite and a creative voice, and the celebration of apathy -- lots of lines about not giving a shit (seriously, not one but two songs with that as the chorus) about anything except, of course, weed -- is dullsville straight out of a shitty gen-X marketing campaign. Best because, goddammit, this is fun as all hell to listen to.

The first couple of tracks come bursting out like some cartoonish hits from modern rock radio circa 1999; I lived through that once and don't really want to again, so King of the Beach doesn't really win me over until the Ronettes and/or Jesus & Mary Chain ripoff that opens the restrained, echo-drenched, minimalistic "When Will You Come," which sounds like someone's having a field day in the best popworld -- it sounds like youth, the beach, all that wonderful stuff. The weird stereophonic spaced-out surf craziness continues with "Baseball Cards," which sounds like nothing else, and "Convertible Balloon" which sounds like Blondie but is still spectactularly executed. Even the Pixies-lite "Linus Spacehead," ELO-heavy "Baby Say Goodbye," and Green Day-cloning "Green Eyes" are solid tunes, well and fully produced. But it's the remarkable "Mickey Mouse" that suggests Nathan Williams might actually have something to teach if he ever wakes up fully. Built entirely on a sample of the first couple of seconds of "Da Doo Ron Ron" and boasting one of the wettest, most body-bursting drum sounds I've heard on record, it is the groove to beat here and is easily the best reason to hear this album.

Summer's over now, so this can't soundtrack yours unless you're in the southern hemisphere, in which case have at it. The rest of us can give in to the undeniably seductive popcraft and hookery in play here. Or we can get persnickety about how if Nathan Williams doesn't seem to care about the music, why should we? Or we can listen to Surfer Blood, who add a surrealistic bent and some genuine lyricism to the neo-surf trend, more Pavement than Blink. Or we can shut up and let this dunderheaded pop music beat us over the head. It feels good. Just leave before it does any permanent damage.