Los Campesinos Shout at the World

There's a certain symmetry to Los Campesinos' hyperactive, Ritalin riot music and the prolific nature with which they release records. On We Are Beautiful, We Are Doomed (their second full-length release this year, following up, Hold On Now, Youngster), their unkempt guitars, shout-along choruses and jumble of violins and keyboards somehow combine to sound like music that needs a speedy delivery. They have lots of ideas and they get them down and out quickly. Miraculously, though, the caustic literacy of their songs never suffers.

[Click the "Continue Reading..." link to listen to a playlist featuring the music discussed in this post.]

Los Campesinos are a Welsh seven-piece whose name translates to "The Farmers" or "The Peasants," though their sound is acres away from the bark-brown tones of earth mothers like, say, Brightblack Morning Light. If you want a quick (and I mean blink of an eye) summary of what to excpect, listen to the ecstatic 35-second "Clunk-Rewind-Clunk-Play-Clunk," from their debut EP Sticking Fingers Into Sockets. They make spiteful, guilt-ridden indie rock that combines the "poetic truths of high school journal keepers" (to steal from a Sonic Youth lyric) with a maudlin, self-flagellating sense of humor and an incredible eye for detail (both emotional and physical).

On their new album, vocals are traded between Alexsandra and Gareth "Campesino" (surnames are for landed gentry, I guess). Gareth's lyrics are especially acerbic in their wit, cramming as many lacerating observations as he can into his spoken-sung delivery. Among my favorites are his lovelorn admissions: "I identify my star sign by asking which is least compatible with yours," from "Ways to Make It Through the Wall," and "I taught myself the only way to vaguely get along in love is to like the other slightly less than you get in return," from We Are Beautiful's title track.

But my most favorite line of theirs comes at the end of the dizzying "Miserabilia." After musing over the various pros and cons of hanging on to one's bad memories (at one point Gareth mutters, "I've spent too much time on my knees next to urinals in garish Mexican restaurants, sobbing into my warm, pale palms for a better understanding of her dietary requirements"), the entire band jump in for a group sing-along, screaming: "Shout at the world because the world doesn't love you/ Lower yourself because you know that you'll have to," while keyboards and violins seem to counter with a lovely "na, na, na, na" melody, teasing their own catharsis. It's fine being corny and emo (who hasn't been both since Tuesday night?); it just happens to work better when you know how ridiculous it sounds.