It is a universally accepted notion that one should not encourage snap-judgments. They’re a hallmark of intellectual immaturity and the foundation of a surefire recipe for regret and the kind of unsightly backtracking in which one must engage when acknowledging, for example, that no, the My Chemical Romance record wasn’t actually very good at all. But at the same time, the rush to judgment is difficult to avoid — especially in the case of Vietnam, who are practically begging you to write them off long before you even press play on their outstanding new self-titled record.
First, there was the band’s decision to release their debut EP with Vice, the record label branch of the magazine that has long stood as indisputable evidence for anyone looking to make the argument that the Williamsburg-based hipster culture of the past five or six years is completely deplorable. Add to that the puzzling tidbit that the recording of their new album was paid for by Mickey Madden, the bassist for the cookie-cutter mainstream rock band Maroon 5, plus their seemingly conscious decision to appear as throwbacks to the late-60s, with the hair and the constant drug references and, hell, even their name, and you’ve got yourself a band that’s not easy to like.
But it’s worth fighting through all that, and not only because the record is full of bluesy, shuffling romps that are expertly played and tastefully recorded. Vietnam brings us back to the days long before the 80s college-rock and 90s indie-rock bands made it acceptable (and preferable, even) for our musical icons to be pretty much exactly like us, the one notable exception being their ability to write songs. What was once Gram Parsons and his weird obsession with finding UFOs, or even Dylan with his off-the-cuff, beat-inspired philosophizing, became Steve Malkmus, with his khakis and his college education, or Conor Oberst, with his hunched shoulders and awkward shyness. Vietnam has provided us with a much-needed reminder that it’s not necessary for us to immediately identify with the bands we listen to — and that sometimes it’s a lot more fun when we can’t.
They’re not alone in their quest to restore rock and roll as the province of the weird, of course. You’ve got your Devendras and your Joanna Newsoms, and even your Chan Marshalls, not to mention so many of the other throwbacks like the Beachwood Sparks or the Apples in Stereo, both of which are good bands, but completely harmless, clearly concerned with capturing the sounds of the 60s rather than the spirit. With Vietnam, though, you’ve got both: the bluesy, fuzzed-out solos with the howling madman lead singer, and the feeling that they really are reporting from a world you don’t know anything about, or at least a world you thought disappeared the last time Lou Reed made a good record.
Knowing that the band currently lives in a store-front apartment in Williamsburg, it’s tempting to think the world they’re documenting is simply that of their adopted hometown, and chances are, it probably is. But they also seem to be winking at us half the time, maybe cracking jokes about their neighbors just like the rest of us have been doing for years: “Money and class are just a pain in the ass for me/But if you stick it under my nose, I’ll sniff it up and glow in the ecstacy” or, about the “independent heads” not knowing how to get on in the straight world, “They’re too busy reading this month’s magazines to know what to do and to say.” This apparent contempt, coupled with all the weird mysticism and crazy-talk, allows us to interpret the rest of the record however we choose. And it seems appropriate to picture it coming from a place somewhere between 1960s San Francisco and the Lower East Side of the early-1970s, where there are no rules, exactly, but where things can still get pretty fucked up if you aren’t careful. And in the record’s opener, they’re even kind enough to invite us to join them. “Step on inside if you’re up for the ride,” says singer Michael Gerner, “’cause outside has grown old and grey.” He might be right. And I might be packing my bags.
First, there was the band’s decision to release their debut EP with Vice, the record label branch of the magazine that has long stood as indisputable evidence for anyone looking to make the argument that the Williamsburg-based hipster culture of the past five or six years is completely deplorable. Add to that the puzzling tidbit that the recording of their new album was paid for by Mickey Madden, the bassist for the cookie-cutter mainstream rock band Maroon 5, plus their seemingly conscious decision to appear as throwbacks to the late-60s, with the hair and the constant drug references and, hell, even their name, and you’ve got yourself a band that’s not easy to like.
But it’s worth fighting through all that, and not only because the record is full of bluesy, shuffling romps that are expertly played and tastefully recorded. Vietnam brings us back to the days long before the 80s college-rock and 90s indie-rock bands made it acceptable (and preferable, even) for our musical icons to be pretty much exactly like us, the one notable exception being their ability to write songs. What was once Gram Parsons and his weird obsession with finding UFOs, or even Dylan with his off-the-cuff, beat-inspired philosophizing, became Steve Malkmus, with his khakis and his college education, or Conor Oberst, with his hunched shoulders and awkward shyness. Vietnam has provided us with a much-needed reminder that it’s not necessary for us to immediately identify with the bands we listen to — and that sometimes it’s a lot more fun when we can’t.
They’re not alone in their quest to restore rock and roll as the province of the weird, of course. You’ve got your Devendras and your Joanna Newsoms, and even your Chan Marshalls, not to mention so many of the other throwbacks like the Beachwood Sparks or the Apples in Stereo, both of which are good bands, but completely harmless, clearly concerned with capturing the sounds of the 60s rather than the spirit. With Vietnam, though, you’ve got both: the bluesy, fuzzed-out solos with the howling madman lead singer, and the feeling that they really are reporting from a world you don’t know anything about, or at least a world you thought disappeared the last time Lou Reed made a good record.
Knowing that the band currently lives in a store-front apartment in Williamsburg, it’s tempting to think the world they’re documenting is simply that of their adopted hometown, and chances are, it probably is. But they also seem to be winking at us half the time, maybe cracking jokes about their neighbors just like the rest of us have been doing for years: “Money and class are just a pain in the ass for me/But if you stick it under my nose, I’ll sniff it up and glow in the ecstacy” or, about the “independent heads” not knowing how to get on in the straight world, “They’re too busy reading this month’s magazines to know what to do and to say.” This apparent contempt, coupled with all the weird mysticism and crazy-talk, allows us to interpret the rest of the record however we choose. And it seems appropriate to picture it coming from a place somewhere between 1960s San Francisco and the Lower East Side of the early-1970s, where there are no rules, exactly, but where things can still get pretty fucked up if you aren’t careful. And in the record’s opener, they’re even kind enough to invite us to join them. “Step on inside if you’re up for the ride,” says singer Michael Gerner, “’cause outside has grown old and grey.” He might be right. And I might be packing my bags.
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