Minneapolis's Fend rotates between concentric and interlocking revolutions of breezy pop rock and rough and ready jangle-core on their debut LP Disc. Released at the end of last summer, it is a refreshing blend of airy distortion and hooky sincerity that tenderly squeezes fresh Lemonheads through a Weezer-shaped copper spiral into a tempered boiler to be heated by the broody afterburn of Heatmiser until the citrusy mash foams and thickens into a palatable XTC-flavored balm to chase out the lonely chill those cold Minnesota nights. Their seemingly Slumberland Records adjacent sound bores through modern trends and netted nostalgic callbacks, aligning like a laser to separate the torpor and carve out a cozy, clubmoss-lined drey* in the current thicket of emo and DIY, where they can stake their claim and let you get acquainted with their attainable comradery and ruminative calm. Opener "1:59 AM" unfurls like a bittersweet lullaby that rouses you from the hold of a fitful slumber with rolling percussion, wind-tussled melodies, and soothing horn accompaniments that rub along you lengthwise like a caring press of a canine companion. The next track, "Ghost Ship," sets the tempo for most of the remainder of the album with grungy, fret-skating interludes, steady pocket-popping grooves, and vocals that navigate lyrical narratives like a biplane attempting to put out an engine fire with a series of aerial acrobatics performed with cautious courage. "Let It Eat" feels like floating through an unwater forest of beat curtains, whose glinting strands have been inverted like a wall of waving Bohemian baleen, and "Michigan Beer" is a petite and messy crescendo that reveals itself in clumps and gluey layers, as if it's being scrapped off like the label of a bottle of domestic brew that's been chilling in a creek bed. "Angel One Million" dazzles with dry, twinkly riffs as it unpacks the mystery of longing and desire with affable vulnerability, while the plodding joyous sulk of "Palm in Palm" pulls you in with the weight of its certainty and holds you prisoner in the bonds of its enigmatic mood. The album exhausts its final few rotations with the cherrywood-scented blush of the gently psilocybin "Crimini 2 (Window People)," an appropriately ponderous but determined folk note to wind down on. Disc is one spinner you won't find easy to discard once it's caught you in the glare of its deceptively reflective charm.
