Ima Robot
Ima Robot
Virgin Records

(out of 5)

It was only a matter of time before the ’80s made a comeback. It hasn’t been long, but somehow selected trends from the decade of greed are currently surfacing in the sounds of new post-punk music. Ima Robot is one of the forerunners in this reappropriated movement. The group features an MC-turned-rock singer, a guitarist weaned on a beat machine, former Beck bandmates on drums and bass and a multi-instrumentalist who plays keys. Each man, talented in his own right, left a relatively secure job to pursue a dream. Now everyone can revel in the result—11 tracks of experimental nostalgia.

“Here’s a story for the kids,” lead vocalist Alex Ebert announces on “Dynomite,” and the spastic journey begins. Frantic synthesizer, drums and guitar jump in, laying the framework for Ebert’s manic, stilted vocals. An ahh-Ahhhh-ahh-screaming chorus puts the finishing touch on a most compelling introduction.
As the album unfolds, Ebert becomes even more frantic. Waves of profuse electronic blips become increasingly complex. The sense of urgency should overwhelm but it only inspires a lot of jerky, blank-stare dancing.

Ima Robot is certainly carving new paths, but the journey has included much reappropriation and convolution of various significant influences. “Dirty Life” evokes early Television in its guitar tone and methodically paced keys, while “What We Are Made From” wavers on a Bowie-esque space oddity—the stars look very different today.

Other tracks hint at PiL (Johnny Rotten’s post-Pistols experiment) and even Devo, which lends its spirit of ambiguous sexuality to the album. When Ebert shouts, “just give me some girls,” it feels like he only wants them to join the fun. There is no sense of masochistic intent—David Lee Roth this band is not.

Even the surprise hidden song about “ex-girlfriends” and “black Jettas” isn’t focused on the subject, just the beats laced so tight that kids will start to dance-fight. Ima Robot, the leader of a new mechanized nation, will decide the outcome.

The Wolf
Andrew W.K
Universal Records

(out of 5)

Who, or what, is Andrew W.K? Several hypotheses are currently circulating the Internet. Columbia University grad student Adam Davis believes that the hyperactive musician is “like Meat Loaf on crack.” However, W.K seems able to limit the length of his songs to less than epic proportions. Thank God. It is more likely that he is simply a sheep in wolf’s clothing. That is, the 12 tracks on his aggressive sophomore album simply serve as a front for his true calling as a symphony conductor—that way he can overindulge in the grandiose without making rock fans puke.

The hairy wildman initially broke onto the scene with energetic songs about getting crazy and partying until you pass out, only waking to find yourself tracing the bars of a jail cell in Texas. W.K was super crazy!

On The Wolf, he continues to lead hyperbolic chants about breaking the rules and tearing it up. Each piece is an exercise in orgiastic surrender. “Make Sex,” for example, is all about, well, making sex, while “Really in Love” has him down on his knees proclaiming, “I really, really, really, really want you.” The passionate singer clearly needn’t concern himself over any sudden depletion in testosterone.

W.K is also schooled in the art of motivational speaking. Although his enthusiasm helps persuade audiences to at least listen to what he has to say, relying on lengthy repetition doesn’t make his argument very convincing. In fact, by the sixth or seventh “tear it up,” The Wolf might end up lying in shards on your front lawn. Surely there’s a market for this type of roaring frivolity, which is why W.K might never be truly compelled to change careers. But perhaps the next record will at least feature a string section—and no lyrics.
—JG
jamie@red-mag.com