Beach houses are typically associated with good times. They may remind us of our younger years, spending our summer vacations in tiny, cramped quarters—sometimes for months on end—with just about every family member freeloading off the one or two well-off members.
If we were lucky, we enjoyed this time with our family, sharing laughter and carefree relaxation. Music may have been a part of these summer vacations and, however unfortunate, albums like the Beach Boys’ Surfin' USA and anything by Jimmy Buffet may accompany these memories. If your family was a little more hip, you may have had Pet Sounds, or Bob Marley instead.
With a name like Beach House, one might prematurely partner the Baltimore, Maryland two-piece’s self-titled debut album with those summer-stained records. One would be way off in that assumption.
In fact, Beach House is like the evil twin to those happy tunes. It is the truth that lurks under our childhood memories. It is the pain we try to forget. It is the beach house in the winter months, dark, cold and lonely and airing out grievances about the summers past for no one to hear. As if there were a microphone in that small beach house during those chilly months, we hear the whispered complaints. These whispers become very powerful.
These whispers come from Beach House’s vocalist and organist Victoria Legrand, who garners easy comparison to Hope Sandoval and Nico. Yet she creates a sound all her own by making her quiet voice strong with emotion. She has seen the same pain as the beach house and uses her observant and truthful lyrics, voice, and organ to lift us from it. Her musical partner, Alex Scally, does his part in creating the simple, layered musical landscapes that lay quietly below her vocal centerpiece.
On opener “Saltwater,” the organ that begins the track is easily forgotten when Legrand begins her wail, “Love you all the time, even though you’re not mine.” This “disappearance” of the music happens on just about every song—at first. But after repeated listens, the vocals and instrumentation meld together and become one. The album moves on in this manner. Everything about it is quiet, almost background music, until you realize you want to happily sing along. Sad songs, they say so much.
The slide guitar on the standout track, “Apple Orchard,” moves like tears down a heartbroken cheek, changing and moving but never climaxing. Sort of like the album itself. Yet the lack of climax becomes the album’s strongpoint. It feels like a dream. The kind of dream that should leave you feeling sad but is uplifting, like the first hint of fall at a beach house.
This is beach music that will challenge you. If you can’t handle it, Jimmy Buffet is waiting.
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