Mosquito – Yeah Yeah Yeahs
Interscope: April 16, 20138/10
Yeah Yeah Yeahs. I can safely, comfortably, and confidently say that I missed the memo on this one. A band I have given pitifully little attention to until now, Yeah Yeah Yeahs have just dropped their fourth album, their first since 2009's It's Blitz. It's called Mosquito and it rocks. A lot.
There was speculation among fans and critics in the lead-up to the album's release about the sound and direction the album would take, which is remarkable only because, in this case, it was completely and utterly wrong. Listeners expected a return to the band's raw, gut-busting, big-city rock origins, but instead received a contemplative emotional explication, anchored in layers of rumbling guitars, shimmering synthesizers, and heavily processed vocals. These elements aren't new in and of themselves; the band has always used them as decoration, but now they are foundation. They represent cornerstones upon which Karen O can layer her visceral and unrepentant vocals in ways that feel in turns warmly familiar and chillingly foreign to the well-versed listener. Five minutes into the album, it is clear that Mosquito is not simply a collection of dance-rock songs, nor is it an adventurous narrative, nor is it a social critique; Mosquito is a detailed work of emotional cartography, a hand-drawn map which may be considered at once a navigational asset and a brilliant work of art.
The album opens with "Sacrilege," which was the first and only single released in anticipation of the album. One of the strongest tracks on the record, it signals the direction and styling of the whole of Mosquito: thoughtful, finely honed, highly energetic, and emotionally wrought. The gospel choir that arrives to back the band up two minutes into the track alerts the listener to the presence of something beyond elementary art rock, something more than a four-on-the-floor (or perhaps more accurately, four-on-the-ride-cymbal) crowd-pleaser, something that is raw, undiluted, and self-critical. That it is a decidedly gospel choir that responds to Karen O's confession of love by aggressively chanting "sacrilege, sacrilege, sacrilege you say" increases the weight borne by singer and listener alike, and allows the track to evolve from statement to examination. "Sacrilege" prepares the listener for what is to come: a rigid, and often uncomfortable self-criticism.
The Broadway Inspirational Voices choir is the first and last voice to be heard on the album that comes from anywhere outside of Karen O's body. Well, except for Dr. Octagon. We'll get there. From here the album makes potentially its boldest move (again, with the possible exception of the inclusion of Dr. Octagon. Again, we'll get there) by dropping into what is unambiguously the slowest track on the record. Yeah Yeah Yeahs do not hesitate to reject the prescribed pattern of album construction followed by so many of their contemporaries. The first track on the album which the audience had not heard prior to the album's release, "Subway" is a solemn and solitary consideration of the prison of self-awareness. It is followed, fairly jarringly, by the album's title track, "Mosquito," which is just as grotesque as the album's cover/booklet artwork would have you believe. The song is narcissistic and revolting, and serves to remind listeners that this album is not about them, it's about Karen O. The weirdest song on the already-overwhelmingly-strange record is not going to appear on any greatest-hits or tribute albums, but it is surely the one that indicates the album's intention most clearly: to map the emotions and musings of the band's frontwoman, and to cast aside any and all distractions form that mission. It is thus the irresistible choice for the album's namesake.
"Under The Earth" might well be the best song on the album. Every bit as bold and incisive as "Sacrilege," but from an almost oppositional angle, the song gives the listener her/his first real opportunity to dig her/his teeth into the album's aesthetic technique. Synth leads and pads that float over basement-level guitars, and distorted, modulated vocal tracks that blend into and back out of the percussive ambient noise that underlies the track make this song sound, well, under the Earth. "Slave" seems to begin in the same subterranean state, but then rockets back above ground (dragging some of the newfound "under-the-Earth" discoveries with it) to become one of the album's sharpest and clearest tracks. These two songs are totally "2001," both in the post-millennial NYC rock revival sense, and in the Stanley Kubrick sense. They bring the album to life, colorfully rendering Karen O's emotional map in three dimensions instead of just two.
"These Paths" and "Area 52" are in some ways as "classic" YYYs as the album gets, and yet they still come across as completely new. The former boils electronics and acoustics together in a stew of Sci-Fi Romanticism, and the latter is interplanetary rock and roll. Imagine a post-apocalyptic Stooges singing about space aliens. You know, the usual fare.
Then comes "Buried Alive," which means it's time for Dr. Octagon to make his appearance. The song actually fits right into the flow of the album (it also has a sort-of galactic tenor to it). Probably the weirdest part about this song is just how un-weird it feels. Dr. Octagon's verse actually serves the album well by providing an out-of-body description of being buried alive, the apparent fate of Karen O and her psyche. An extraction of that fate from the album is probably unwise, for to do so would be to smear the ink on the map before it has dried. We don't need to know what "Buried Alive" is in reference to, and Karen O has no trouble withholding that information.
"Always" begins with what turns out to be a comically misplaced clave groove. Anyone who has taken an intro to music theory/history course can tell you that this rhythm is the foundation for nearly all Afro-Cuban music, and it's presence invites the listener to consider an exotic and refreshing destination, a temporary respite from a cold and synthetic reality. But the vocal and synth tracks shake away such notions with chilling efficiency. The song contains just twenty words, and the word "always" is repeated over and over as if to banish from our heads the prospect of temporality, and then to mock us for having allowed it there in the first place. The second verse (identical to the first) gives way to a flood of synths that spend the song's final minute consuming the listener. By the end of the track one is almost lulled into submission, but the persistent clave groove remains as the lone "natural" sound in the mix, at once beckoning and alienating the now-weary audience. Can the rigidity of the synths and the flexibility of the acoustic clave, and the cultural traditions they each entail, reconcile with one another? Can music exist in a system devoid of any and all nature? The song gives no clear answer. While it is likely not the primary aspiration of the song or the artist, "Always" does invite the listener to consider how music is made and defined, and how particular sounds, acting as cultural markers, include/exclude categories of listeners.
The penultimate track on Mosquito is "Despair," a slow-rolling, momentous anthem of fear and hope. On the heels of the album's most lyrically succinct song, "Despair" is easily the wordiest track on the album. And fairly so: one has a lot to sift through if one aims to dissect and disarm the existence of despair, even if that dissection happens on an absolutely personal level. While it's impossible to know for sure exactly how Karen O resolves the question, it seems clear by the song's end that she does resolve it.
The album tapers with "Wedding Song," which leaves the listener right about where s/he started. We've reached the end, which is also the beginning. The map is completed, and the great thing about a completed map is that now we get to use it to go exploring, and to draw up some new maps. It's an everlasting cycle of inquest, discovery, and dissemination. Mosquito has taken us through one complete iteration of that sequence, requesting that on the way we play the role of the observer rather than the role of the observed. The album raises more questions than it answers, but it is most assuredly is a success. Deep and dark, pensive and reactionary, transcendent and revolting, this album aims at very little and achieves a great deal. Yeah Yeah Yeahs are back on the scene, quietly sinking their microscopic needles under your skin, and bringing themselves back to life with you along to watch. Sit down, shut up, and feel it happen.
"Under The Earth" might well be the best song on the album. Every bit as bold and incisive as "Sacrilege," but from an almost oppositional angle, the song gives the listener her/his first real opportunity to dig her/his teeth into the album's aesthetic technique. Synth leads and pads that float over basement-level guitars, and distorted, modulated vocal tracks that blend into and back out of the percussive ambient noise that underlies the track make this song sound, well, under the Earth. "Slave" seems to begin in the same subterranean state, but then rockets back above ground (dragging some of the newfound "under-the-Earth" discoveries with it) to become one of the album's sharpest and clearest tracks. These two songs are totally "2001," both in the post-millennial NYC rock revival sense, and in the Stanley Kubrick sense. They bring the album to life, colorfully rendering Karen O's emotional map in three dimensions instead of just two.
"These Paths" and "Area 52" are in some ways as "classic" YYYs as the album gets, and yet they still come across as completely new. The former boils electronics and acoustics together in a stew of Sci-Fi Romanticism, and the latter is interplanetary rock and roll. Imagine a post-apocalyptic Stooges singing about space aliens. You know, the usual fare.
Then comes "Buried Alive," which means it's time for Dr. Octagon to make his appearance. The song actually fits right into the flow of the album (it also has a sort-of galactic tenor to it). Probably the weirdest part about this song is just how un-weird it feels. Dr. Octagon's verse actually serves the album well by providing an out-of-body description of being buried alive, the apparent fate of Karen O and her psyche. An extraction of that fate from the album is probably unwise, for to do so would be to smear the ink on the map before it has dried. We don't need to know what "Buried Alive" is in reference to, and Karen O has no trouble withholding that information.
"Always" begins with what turns out to be a comically misplaced clave groove. Anyone who has taken an intro to music theory/history course can tell you that this rhythm is the foundation for nearly all Afro-Cuban music, and it's presence invites the listener to consider an exotic and refreshing destination, a temporary respite from a cold and synthetic reality. But the vocal and synth tracks shake away such notions with chilling efficiency. The song contains just twenty words, and the word "always" is repeated over and over as if to banish from our heads the prospect of temporality, and then to mock us for having allowed it there in the first place. The second verse (identical to the first) gives way to a flood of synths that spend the song's final minute consuming the listener. By the end of the track one is almost lulled into submission, but the persistent clave groove remains as the lone "natural" sound in the mix, at once beckoning and alienating the now-weary audience. Can the rigidity of the synths and the flexibility of the acoustic clave, and the cultural traditions they each entail, reconcile with one another? Can music exist in a system devoid of any and all nature? The song gives no clear answer. While it is likely not the primary aspiration of the song or the artist, "Always" does invite the listener to consider how music is made and defined, and how particular sounds, acting as cultural markers, include/exclude categories of listeners.
The penultimate track on Mosquito is "Despair," a slow-rolling, momentous anthem of fear and hope. On the heels of the album's most lyrically succinct song, "Despair" is easily the wordiest track on the album. And fairly so: one has a lot to sift through if one aims to dissect and disarm the existence of despair, even if that dissection happens on an absolutely personal level. While it's impossible to know for sure exactly how Karen O resolves the question, it seems clear by the song's end that she does resolve it.
The album tapers with "Wedding Song," which leaves the listener right about where s/he started. We've reached the end, which is also the beginning. The map is completed, and the great thing about a completed map is that now we get to use it to go exploring, and to draw up some new maps. It's an everlasting cycle of inquest, discovery, and dissemination. Mosquito has taken us through one complete iteration of that sequence, requesting that on the way we play the role of the observer rather than the role of the observed. The album raises more questions than it answers, but it is most assuredly is a success. Deep and dark, pensive and reactionary, transcendent and revolting, this album aims at very little and achieves a great deal. Yeah Yeah Yeahs are back on the scene, quietly sinking their microscopic needles under your skin, and bringing themselves back to life with you along to watch. Sit down, shut up, and feel it happen.
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| Yeah Yeah Yeahs live at the Majestic Ventura Theater for the Mosquito release show. |
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