It's a cliché to dissect the opening few
seconds of an album, but the gristly, distorted three-chord guitar
riff that kicks this barrage off seems to
encapsulate LUX so perfectly. With punk guile and scummy
revelry, Disappears converts this record into an abandonless
romp of messy proportions, fuelled by
grimy rock carnage and more than a little raucous swagger. This
evokes empty cans of PBR crushed against foreheads, sweaty auto
dealership tees, and merrily rediscovered next-day photographs of
faces absorbed in that fine state of ecstasy that accompanies only
the most debauched dancefloor
bacchanal.
I know -- how is this record on Kranky?
That a reasonable question, certainly,
but don't expect any expansive solos or abstract soundscapes here;
not one of LUX's ten songs reaches
four minutes, and five are under three. Indeed, Disappears'
four gents get their point across with the brash concision of a
tricycle meeting a tractor trailer. Look no further than "Magics,"
the record's longest and finest outing. Grungy riffs are slotted
into a delicious, Evergreen-esque groove which picks up
momentum before unleashing some deftly soaring guitar highs. All the
while, the rhythm section slams along, giving heads and feet a tasty
structure to bomp along to. It's raunchy, restless fun, and like the
best tracks on LUX, all the ruffled energy is swabbed with
simple yet potent hooks. The same formula rears its attractive face
on frantic "Pearly Gates," tense "LUX," and nihilistic "Gone
Completely." On the other hand, late-album nuggets "Little Ghost"
and "No Other" work with slower, plodding rhythms, shedding some of
the band's zippy enthusiasm in favour of a more burnt-out sound,
centred around wearied vocals and satisfying guitar crunch.
But whether Disappears are tearing it up or
sending it off, there's enough here to render any spirited
fun-lover drenched in sweat.
