Wolf Parade apes too many, reaps little

Sam Bloch Staff Writer

There’s lots of fun to be found in the most derivative and formulaic of music—Franz Ferdinand, top forty, and so on. But unfortunately for me, you, and everyone at WVKR we know, Wolf Parade’s Apologies to the Queen Mary is not that kind of music. It’s the worst kind of derivative, the one that pretends it isn’t and dares for those emotional insights already rehashed by a few other bands. One of them even played Vassar three weeks ago.

Much like the countless late-’70s Talking Heads retreads now in vogue (the Arcade Fire, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, and Modest Mouse), Wolf Parade rarely strays from their seemingly immediate template. Those jerky rhythms and out-of-left-field bridges anchored by strained lead melodies (“Grounds For Divorce”), the vague lyrics about alienation and jealousy (the none-too-obvious “Modern World”). I’ve heard this album so many times before. Oh, how I found myself excited by the late-album throwback to the halcyon days of discopunk (the Hot Hot Heat-esque “It’s A Curse”).

But dear listener, I beg you to ignore all of that. Even the unabashed earnestness—just a moment, please. Turn instead to the production of that clever Isaac Brock, of Modest Mouse fame. By pushing the album’s many multi-tracked gang vocals way up front, he urges you, the emotionally malleable listener, to grab on like it’s all just so important.

Yeah, ascending scales reach across most tracks like “Same Ghost EveryNight,” but whenever those vocals come in—well, there’s a reason “Float On” was so big. And it sure wasn’t those perfectly glossy guitars and organs congealed underneath.
Of course, this album finds a means to diversity with requisite Pixies lurches (“We Built Another World”) and groovy, mostly unassuming rockers (“Shine A Light”). Their false insight is completely absent in these tracks, and sure enough, they’re the best songs on the album. So it pains me to say this, but unlike the bands they continually ape, Wolf Parade’s best moments are those stripped of ambition. And I'm chagrined, I'll say, at realizing that it’s not worth spending a few minutes on what so desperately wants to sound like the Parthenon.

But the album’s opening salvo (“You Are a Runner and I Am My Father’s Son”) sounds so great—I don’t even care that the name is embarrassing. It bucks an organ beat that sounds a lot like the one in G-Unit’s “Stunt 101” and a backbeat to kill for. I would have loved to hear Wolf Parade keep it up for the whole album. Pasty indie rockers whining over the sexy beats and then some feedback for good measure. I mean, is it really so much to ask?