One might find it possible to assume that, upon formation of this quartet, that the band made an Aeneid-length list of shitty names as fitting as possible to their sound, and after a good average workday or so to mull it over, someone or all of them cried out, “Fuck it!” to a gaping full moon and simply named themselves after their two most obvious traits. Upon hearing them, the evidence of their “poppiness” is undisputed, however their tininess is something else altogether, as they sought the type of studio help that would penetrate their precious indie frailties with hot, steamy grandiosity.
There are some big dreams frothing from within the heads of these post-post-post-post-flower children. The whole happening kicks off with an arena-harkening albeit low-key synth line before abruptly exploding into revisionist Coldplay symphonics, with sprits of Death Cab here and there. Tricia Kanne’s vocals try to convey a world-wariness more befitting for some kind of piss-poor junky who can’t sing. She’s simply too inhumanly perfect to sound sad or introspective. The aforementioned grandiosity establishes Kanne’s ghostly presence early on as her simplistic chorus repetitions of “Like I Do” echo boundlessly to the far reaches of the universe before collapsing into raped oblivion is they pass beyond the wall into Hell.
Of course even if she wanted to be as cool as Kim Deal, it would hardly be doable. Everything else on the record has been honed. Every creative eccentricity that would have added interest to these songs have been suffocated with silken studio magic. Guitars wail with clit-stimulating space age effects with the bass and drums reverberating in tow efficiently and thoughtfully. All the while, Kanne continues to soar to heights unattainable by mere mortals. Her lyrics are poetic in the most juvenile sense, which is not even worth stating anymore when it comes to this genre. But also given the genre, it’s as if there is an attempt at genius here in reinventing the wheel in what seems to be the only way that’s left: by making the songs’ themes of heartbreak, uncertainty, preciousness and butterflies as vague as possible.
The end result is about 85% listenable. The potential to be entirely listenable is there, but it falls short in only by way of constant repetition that harms the sound. It’s one thing to be a mopey pop band, but the best mopey pop bands have ways of counterbalancing their blues with more than one up-tempo number. The one up-tempo number, “Butterflies,” is perfectly suitable for a slew of Clear Channel-strangled FM radio stations. For once in the record everyone seems to be totally stoked, or at least apprehensive, but there is a bit of a pulse. Why they named their album after the first Star Wars film is beyond me. I mean they had to consider that right? RIGHT? I could be wrong. Either way, this is ironically the perfect album to sulk along to in the dark somewhere, particularly if you spent a good deal of time savaging a perfectly okay indie pop band in a way that a frat boy would do to any reasonably vulnerable state college freshman.