of Montreal has worn its artiness on its frilly sleeves for decades, remaining the consummate glam rock band of this generation. To call their twelfth album "conventional" would perhaps be an abuse of the word given frontman Kevin Barnes' neurotic obsessions and brittle vocals. If ever an of Montreal record were to receive the "conventional" label though, Lousy with Sylvianbriar would bear the unfortunate tag.
Although the work is a subdued and diluted effort for Barnes and his cohorts, Lousy with Sylvianbriar floats as a lyrically sound vessel. Its black humor gleams as sharply as the band's most daring material. Sexual puns, literary allusions, and psychological self-critique permeate the record, dodging writing tropes and stale sentiments.
The lyrical tour-de-force of "Belle Glade Missionaries" rambles on in a punchy stream of eclectic images and one-liners ("There are no victims, only participants;" "You post naked .gifs of your epileptic fits;" "I have a feeling you want to be the female Henry Miller;" etc). Later on, Barnes constructs his "Colossus" with one of the more darkly compelling opening lines in songwriting history, an account of a pregnant mother's suicide. The song, however, as with the record itself, is better appreciated for its twisted segments than for its gross effect.
The majority of the album's tracks are too slow and unmemorable for a band with such proven pop songwriting capabilities. of Montreal still flaunt their knack for the hook now and then: "Triumph of Disintegration" is funky and fun, and "She Ain't Speakin' Now" balances its lackluster verses with a lively chorus. Overall though, the band's lyrics brutally trump their music in creativity and irreverent weirdness.
Lousy with Sylvianbriar is too structurally tame for of Montreal. The hyperactive unevenness of an album like Skeletal Lamping has been replaced by a strict adherence to traditional definitions of "recordhood." Barnes, disappointingly, sounds creatively weakened, as though finally succumbing to critics of his band's extravagances. The tragedy is that these extravagances, all the ragged quirks and loud arty gestures, are what make of Montreal so arresting, endearing, and wickedly outrageous. Lousy with Sylvianbriar is a competent creature, featuring some fine poetry, but it bores more than it should.
Grade: B-
It's funny how stuff works sometimes because I've been sort of lukewarm on their last their last 3 albums and view this as a return to form of sorts. For someone who really enjoyed the simple days of Cherry Peel this was a really refreshing surprise.
Love that album, Can't wait to buy this album!