Everybody Who Pretended to Like Me is Gone was a mite of a letdown for anyone who had the first two vinyl Walkmen EP’s. They contained all thirteen of its tracks. The three exclusives, though, are well worth converting to a more portable format.
The Walkmen– Don’t Be Long, [8 Songs 12” EP #1]
Ssshhhcka-schicka, Ssshhhcka-schicka, vwoop-i vwoop-i, vwoop-i vwoop-i, Boom-bi-di-Boom Boom BAP BAP, THUDDA thudda THUDDA thudda, Boom-bi-di-Boom Boom BAP BAP! If I tried to mix those parts together on this keyboard as thoroughly as they are in the song, you wouldn’t be able to read it. It’s all accompanied by a wonderful ascending chordal lead that sneaks in two nearly-implied notes after the lead four. The Walkmen are doing a Soca/Afrobeat shindig thing, but East Village Stylee! It takes many moments of listening to realize that it’s best counted in 8/4, and by then it’s kicked into a throbbing straight-time chorus. The instrumental bridge then rocks you to oblivion. That’s it, just under three minutes of one long verse, a chorus, repeated with different lyrics, and a brief bridge outta there.
The Walkmen– Pictures Of Us, [8 Songs 12” EP #1]
A few shards of feedback, a couple beats of driving drum accompanied by peanut-gallery keyboards, and, wham, the vocal hits: “Pictures of us, in the Spring. We were so young, I was still, I was still, scattered in love, on the ground, in a heap…It doesn’t matter…” This song takes call and response to a new pasty level of angst, switching off rhythms and leads every four bars, and pounding away like few Walkmen songs do. There’s plenty of ambience here, but it’s all raging and astatic, bursting through the wall of kineticism as they rarely do on record. I’ve seen them do it as an encore starter—is that Animal on the drums, in a sweater-vest?
The Walkmen– It’s A Crime That I Complain, [8 Songs 12” EP #2]
An archetypal Walkmen drunk song, the abridged lyrics are “I’ve grown accustomed to you…the way you speak. It’s a crime that I complain. Sometimes I exude thinking of times I’ve passed in some useless crowd. Maybe I’ve beat it; perhaps I’ve just got bored. Ohhhoh… Maybe conversation could care anymore. Now and then I get drunk to hell. I wake up sick and I hate myself. It’s a crime that I complain. I don’t mind the quiet, (aaaaah-aaaooaahh, mixed in throughout) if talking’s such a drag, forget it forget it”. By the time you figure out those lyrics with the help of the headphones, you’ve both sobered up and realized that no-one likely got that phrasing out while drunk. I’d guess it’s expressive of a real feeling, but a bit practiced for delivery. Plod plod plod plod, intro revised into outro as a slow, agonizing build to extended drum-roll guitar-tremolo finish–mine has the stylus lifting, yeay!
[visit the website here, buy one of those EPs here, read Joe Panzner’s Stylus review here]