| spotlight!
trippin’ tunes
The Guillemots
From the Cliffs
(Fantastic Plastic, 2006)
By Erin Barnes
ebarnes4@mscd.edu
The
Guillemots, named after a kind of small bird, are fun for
any party—they
play whimsical pop that will make guests
feel like someone drugged their jungle
juice.
From the Cliffs begins with a vibrant
burst into playground pop, with sounds
of children laughing and a “Sesame
Street” swing. The second track, “Trains
to Brazil,” slides up and down the scale
to shape a uniquely sweet melody with
the passionate and youthful voice of male
vocalist Fyfe Dangerfi eld.
But something’s not quite right. This
is pop, yet there’s a feeling of impending
doom. Is it a little fl at? At this point,
I think something is wrong with my stereo,
and I switch to headphones. It’s still
there.
The production creates a subtle, allencompassing
echo, causing harmonic
chords to overlap into eerie discord.
There are sandboxes and children on the
cover, but the lyrics suggest adult themes:
stalking, death and repeated wailings like“
I’m coming back to you” sounding more
like posthumous threats than declarations
of love.
These dark lyrics are mixed with
childhood memories of school days and
blue eyes that “disappeared…” It’s
as if
this skip in the park is about to tip over
and implode into a cavernous nothingness.
The songs play like a warped record
during a bad mushroom trip, echoing
dissonance and swirling into a slower
dimension of hell.
What’s subtle in the beginning becomes
overt in “Over the Stairs.” This is
the best track on the album—it’s the song
right before the album falls apart. It’s a
soft, “Strawberry Fields” allusion that
pitches into turmoil and rings, and then
revisits its harmony. The highlight is an
R&B-style climax into high-pitched, improvisational vocals—only
they’re hilariously
disordered and out of tune.
The rest of the album cascades into
bedlam, forcing the listener to cling to
Fyfe’s wholesome voice like a trip buddy.“
Go Away” is the worst track, because
the Reggae vibe doesn’t work with dissonant
experimentation—it just sounds like
they can’t play their instruments.
By the end of the album I feel tense,
but I think the Guillemots have their own
brand of brilliance, perhaps illustrating
that beauty is a cruel illusion. So, while
other reviewers might describe the album
as straight “alternative” or “pop,” I
call it“ David Lynch Acid Hell Pop.”
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