Paladin
KC Hill
Craig Hill
Oracle of DelphiLemonade by Lemonade
January 19th 2009 12:31
Lemonade, so the old saying goes, is what you make when life serves you lemons. But for the three San Franciscans-cum-Brooklynites in the band Lemonade, it's what you get when music blogs serve a new dance-music subgenre, umpteenth post-punk revival, and hot world-music trend on a weekly basis; you process the best bits into something practical and satisfying.
The six extended tracks on the band's self-titled debut are rife with rhythmic density and intensity, but smartly sequenced into two halves that each follow the peak/valley/peak arc that rock listeners demand of Proper Albums. Lemonade seem especially aware of this conversion process. Their record vividly replicates that first sensation of losing yourself in a peak-hour, strobe-lit reverie, where the communal act of dancing teeters between liberation and disorientation.
Evocative opener "Big Weekend" establishes the theme, luring you in with familiar devices. Drummer Alex Pasternak lays down a kick-drum thump and cowbell clatter that approximates the polyrhythimic pulse of Liquid Liquid, while a 303 synth riff and frontman Callan Clendenin's Ibiza-evoking lyrics further enhance the 80s flashback. But following a mid-song breakdown, Pasternak's drumming turns more fiercely tribal and Clendenin's voice is refashioned into a stream of distorted and mutated squeals, providing an early indication that Lemonade's definition of dancefloor abandon also includes the bad-trip flipside, further revealed by the industrialized schaffel swing of "Unreal". The spastic, devolutionary disco of "Real Slime" provides a more explicit affront to ecstasy-induced enlightenment, with Clendenin admonishing his hippy-dippy target to "scrape the fluoride out of your encrusted third eye."
With their muscular, aggressive approach to dance music, Lemonade operate from a similar base as other percussive post-punk new-schoolers, from party-starting outfits like !!! and Professor Murder to more abrasive acts like Aa and Liars. But the trio strike a singular balance between weird and wired: eight-minute centerpiece "Nasifon" finds Clendenin's voice sliding further into indecipherability-- imagine Metal Box-era John Lydon bellowing out Sigur Rós' Hopelandic lyric sheet-- but layers it with Arabic-accented melodies, machine-gunned synths and a pounding 4/4 beat that would go over both in Williamsburg warehouse parties and Dubai super clubs.
And if the queasy, grime grind of "Sunchips" sputters on about twice as long as it needs to, it makes the arrival of spectacular closer "Blissout" all the more rewarding. On an album that's been mostly concerned with the feeling of losing control, "Blissout" provides Lemonade with a hard-earned moment clarity: Clendenin's uncharacteristically stoic vocal calmly rides atop a cheery hi-NRG beat and acid-soaked synths, before a twinkling piano refrain and chopped-up vocals announcing the band's name trigger a big-beat blowout, with Clendenin's ecstatic, echo-laden exclamations summoning the break of dawn. As the track fades, it's overcome by a chorus of sampled voices all uttering the same statement: "we're all having a good time." Given Clendenin's cryptic, fragmented approach to singing, you can't fault Lemonade for using these dying seconds to state the obvious.
The six extended tracks on the band's self-titled debut are rife with rhythmic density and intensity, but smartly sequenced into two halves that each follow the peak/valley/peak arc that rock listeners demand of Proper Albums. Lemonade seem especially aware of this conversion process. Their record vividly replicates that first sensation of losing yourself in a peak-hour, strobe-lit reverie, where the communal act of dancing teeters between liberation and disorientation.
Evocative opener "Big Weekend" establishes the theme, luring you in with familiar devices. Drummer Alex Pasternak lays down a kick-drum thump and cowbell clatter that approximates the polyrhythimic pulse of Liquid Liquid, while a 303 synth riff and frontman Callan Clendenin's Ibiza-evoking lyrics further enhance the 80s flashback. But following a mid-song breakdown, Pasternak's drumming turns more fiercely tribal and Clendenin's voice is refashioned into a stream of distorted and mutated squeals, providing an early indication that Lemonade's definition of dancefloor abandon also includes the bad-trip flipside, further revealed by the industrialized schaffel swing of "Unreal". The spastic, devolutionary disco of "Real Slime" provides a more explicit affront to ecstasy-induced enlightenment, with Clendenin admonishing his hippy-dippy target to "scrape the fluoride out of your encrusted third eye."
With their muscular, aggressive approach to dance music, Lemonade operate from a similar base as other percussive post-punk new-schoolers, from party-starting outfits like !!! and Professor Murder to more abrasive acts like Aa and Liars. But the trio strike a singular balance between weird and wired: eight-minute centerpiece "Nasifon" finds Clendenin's voice sliding further into indecipherability-- imagine Metal Box-era John Lydon bellowing out Sigur Rós' Hopelandic lyric sheet-- but layers it with Arabic-accented melodies, machine-gunned synths and a pounding 4/4 beat that would go over both in Williamsburg warehouse parties and Dubai super clubs.
And if the queasy, grime grind of "Sunchips" sputters on about twice as long as it needs to, it makes the arrival of spectacular closer "Blissout" all the more rewarding. On an album that's been mostly concerned with the feeling of losing control, "Blissout" provides Lemonade with a hard-earned moment clarity: Clendenin's uncharacteristically stoic vocal calmly rides atop a cheery hi-NRG beat and acid-soaked synths, before a twinkling piano refrain and chopped-up vocals announcing the band's name trigger a big-beat blowout, with Clendenin's ecstatic, echo-laden exclamations summoning the break of dawn. As the track fades, it's overcome by a chorus of sampled voices all uttering the same statement: "we're all having a good time." Given Clendenin's cryptic, fragmented approach to singing, you can't fault Lemonade for using these dying seconds to state the obvious.
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