Wearing your emotions on your sleeve is never quite as powerful as those kept under wraps. Oftentimes, those who wear those opinions/emotions end up becoming a dispassionate example of that belief system. In the case of Film School, their complete and wholly merited love of The Cure (and to a lesser extent, My Bloody Valentine) reverberates without hyperbole—there is no sense of overdoing it here if you listen to a track at the time. The songs last longer than they should sometimes, sure, but generally they fade in and out of repetitive vocals and building, swirling guitars.
Film School as an album, however, is not distinctly a failure or a success. In fact, its tasteful blandness creates an atmosphere of thankfulness as if this was the album they were born to record. Even the liner notes reflect a triumph as if the album was doomed to die in their hands before release. Each of them lived the despaired calls of Disintegration, Pornography, and Bloodflowers, and they came out completely affected. It would be criminal not to write "Pitfalls" or "Breet" in the same way it would be criminal for J.D. Salinger not to mention the Great Gatsby in his books. Even the standouts, "He's a Deep Deep Lake," with its vocal swells revealing a falsetto, "Sick of the Shame" with its lovely opening riff, and "On and On," end up at the same vexing point of reference—i.e. if you think I focus on this point too long, listen to the album and notice their obsession.
Ultimately, the tepid instrumental noises and the nondescript Smithian vocal patterns are the downfall. Though I love the attempt to recreate a sound, I can't help but remember that Bloodflowers was fairly recent on the rock timeline. I can't help but want to revise the strategy; rethink the tepid swirls of keys and guitars that make wearing your influences on your sleeve an inane and archaic practice. I can't help but reserve my full attention to the albums that masque their artistic references in their vision—not those who truly believed in someone else's art the entire time. |