The Decemberists

Her Majesty The Decemberists

(Kill Rock Stars)

Brigands seemed to be all the rage in the first half of 2003, between Pirates of the Caribbean and the Decemberists’ first album. Even without Jack Sparrow’s swagger, Castaways and Cutouts won plenty of critical acclaim for its campfire-history trappings—pristine folk arrangements, overwrought theatrics, elaborate lyrics about ghosts and buccaneers.

Her Majesty The Decemberists is a worthy follow-up on all counts. The band manages to gently expand its repertoire while retaining everything that made Castaways so endearing. Pre-Marxist revolutionary Colin Meloy is still penning dime-novel tales about dissolute seamen, WWI doughboys, a blindfolded “Jewess” and a rascally “chimbley sweep.” The songs verge on Gothic, but only in a literary sense—driven by nostalgia, they sound as if the Decemberists have never heard anything recorded after 1975, let alone a Cure record.

This time around, the drunk Edwardian nightmares unfold over more varied musical backdrops, with the cheery organs and major chords of Castaways’ “July, July!” taking over much of the new album. For all their charm, Meloy’s dirty little stories wouldn’t be much use to indie rock if they didn’t make good songs, and Her Majesty is full of those. The poisonous smirk of “Los Angeles, I’m Yours,” the rustic daze of “As I Rise” and the surprisingly straightforward “Billy Liar” all prove that the Decemberists have considerable range. Meloy and his bandmates might have been born a few centuries too late, but we’re lucky to have these faux-Luddites chewing the scenery today.

—Simon W. Vozick-Levinson

Grand Buffet

Cigarette Beach

(No label)

Grand Buffet would be fairly easy to dismiss if they hailed from anywhere other than Pittsburgh. After all, non sequitur rapping over cheesy beats is often the province of poseurs and hipsters, but the duo’s humble Rust Belt origins attest to a refreshingly earnest approach. On their third independently-released album, the lyrical gimmicks are nothing if not inventive—especially when rapping about early-bird buffet beatdowns on “The Old Folk Smashers.” Though neither Grape-a-Don nor Lord Grunge can turn a phrase as deftly as fellow bizarro MC Paul Barman, they can still coax a smile and a nod of the head—Batman, Thai food and Applebee’s are all namechecked in just the first two tracks. Grand Buffet’s most distinctive beats are also their most effective ones, from the minimalist thump of “Barbecue Gloves” to the piercingly deep bass of “Intruder Excluder” and “Nate Kukla’s History of Lemonade.”

If Cigarette Beach seems unsatisfying at times, it’s because the album fails to truly capture the off-the-cuff wit and sheer lunacy of the duo’s live performances. With most of the tracks simply lurching into the next, Grape-a-Don never gets the chance to fully develop his loose cannon personality. What’s more, the absurd shout-along choruses of early Grand Buffet favorites like “Candy Bars” and “You’re on Fire” have largely been replaced with tedious sing-alongs. But even if the album doesn’t always do justice to the act, it should be more than enough to expand their audience for their next burst of deranged brilliance. They’re here, they’re weird, and they’re making basement hip-hop with uncommon glee.

—Thomas J. Clarke

Various Artists

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