I'd be very surprised to learn that any of the guys from Atlanta's Michael Cera Pallin could see another country from their house- even if they were to stand on their roofs and hike up on their toes. Atlanta's pretty far removed from most internationally recognized partitions, unless there is a micronation nearby like Petoria that I'm oblivious to.* But who am I kidding (Not you! I'm nothing but honest with you!), being part of a scene and a subculture can be like being a member of your own private nation in some ways- there are customs and borders, anthems and sites of worship, ambassadors and refugees, etc...- so I guess you could say that they see another foreign provenance from their place of residence after all, observing the clueless barbarian roaming around the city gates of their polity, blind to the riches concealed from their line of sight. If you could count yourself so bold, curious, and gallant, then maybe you could find yourself an honored guest, or at least an unmolested tourist, within their domain. Personally, I'm taking MCP's debut LP We Could Be Brave, as just that, a summons to a world beyond my provincial purview. Take, if you will, the stocky punch and roll of opener "Feast or Famine," which mediates the strummy affectedness of Mom Jeans with an overhanded volley approach to PUP venerating melody, dipping around your defenses and rocking you with a stunning ploy of earnest reflection and whiplash-hooks- it's almost too insistent that you give into band's steering command- lassoing you with elastic rhythms and reeling you into a zone of near claustrophobic catharsis. The next track is even more emphatic, acting like a cyclone that siphons the grief, pride, and fervor of the Mid-West and Great Lakes regions and funnels them into a concentrated etching tool that the band uses to carve their debts and deficiencies into the sands of time, only to witness them being washed away by the ripples and tides their own presence produces in the waters of Chronos- wiping the slate as if it were marked with mere chalk and not the fragments of past selves. Elsewhere, a rain of fluttering portraits showers from above, scattering and plastering themselves against burning pillars of searching clarity caught in counter-currents of amplified distortion and clashing social principles on the flea-bitten stinger "Murder Hornet Fursona"- the high points of which are met with, almost like the repetition of a poem, in a variation on mood, in the audacious and post-punky dip and drag of the justifiably discourteous, twinkle-spark scan "Gracious." Later down the line, we encounter "Despite," which sounds like the afterthoughts that bubble up out of the slick of mud that's been washed off a clear conscience, followed by the bashy balancing act "Broken Face," which teeters on the margins of both self-help and self-implosion without any apparent indicators as to which demarcation it would prefer to land. It's fitting, but rarely encountered that an album will conclude with the title track, almost like a final curtain drop after the listener has been pulled up on stage to take part in the closing bow- this bow lasts for 11 minutes though, and transitions through several fiery build-ups and busts, making the conclusion of the album more like an obstacle course you run with friends rather than a soft breathy kiss goodnight (not that it doesn't contain an appropriate air of finality- the band just seems to have trouble letting you go by the end after having spent so much time to get to know you). There are those who are could be brave enough to be themselves and seek out kindred souls, and then there are those who are brave enough to step fully into such a commonwealth of kinship- I think, despite their modesty, Michael Cera Palin can be counted as the latter.
Big Scary Monsters, living in the milk crates in your closet, warding off the bad vibes that float in through the vents.
