When the smoke settles and the black boots march over the clamor of lifestyle and languor, the White Rabbits can say they put out a desirable record. Imagining that sentence seems ridiculous to me, but then again having seen this in progress for the past year (plus) seems ridiculous too. The underbelly of the music world is no longer heinous or seedy. Instead it is a satire of itself—one of waiting to see marketability and missed opportunity—made solely of simple yet sanctimonious simplicity on one side and surreptitious smoke blowing on the other. Which witch being which is anyone's guess at any point—bands are just as wary of bullshit as labels more than 50% of the time that a group is wary of it's own hype. I'd guess that number is up from, uh, 10% in the Ritchie Valens days of burgeoning rock sounds. Of course these numbers are guesses as ill-researched as the day is long, but the point remains the same: the struggle is more mirrors than smoke these days; the making of a "should be huge" record is a reflection of regression and character more than a struggle to celebrate a musical achievement.
No, White Rabbits have not stunned me. No, they have not brow-beaten me with extra sound or studio highlights. They have made a workmanlike record with a grander scope than even they could imagine: each song is as ambitious as it should be and a sum of it's parts more than it wants to be. Honesty to themselves is both their accomplishment and their adverse affect; their journey to the arena and their battle with the lion. This is positive. Trust me.
Watching their live performances (of which I have seen many) is a true testament to the way this album came about: each person contributing the same way as any other. It is a military uniformity: the rhythm section is as energetic as the vocals and guitars. The sum of the parts equals the whole perfectly. This album battles its apexes and bottom-outs with the clarity of a financier battling a centralized group of protestors. The vigor and catchiness of "The Plot" counterbalances its simplicity. The sagacity continues with "Navy Wives" offers a storyline writable to any songwriter with an original rhythmic twist. The title track illustrates White Rabbits' portentousness and their point: they are talented group playing a complex sound with grace and equanimity to a fault. Even with Clash like ahhhhs and involved piano playing, one awaits a climax beyond that already heard. Predictability is divine, but Fort Nightly (song and album) deliver beyond that and below expectation just the same. Amazing, then, that the theory behind this seems so mundane yet engrossing. The closer, "Tourist Trap," envelopes this ideal nicely: the storyline and song carry on an interesting tone—layered vocals, off-beat percussion, and well-placed pianos offset a story meant for a divergent class (i.e. the tourists are not interesting, but the music fits so well)—but fail to deliver ultimately.
Therein lies both the problem and the solution: diversifying can both harm and help the group. The simpler songs pack the power of those twice their stature. The more complicated ones lack the punch that the common audience awaits. Therein awaits the adoring public like coiled snakes rattling the tails. They wait to pounce and they will. Oh, how they will. It will only make sense, however, that White Rabbits abandon them somehow and still adore them as well. Thus, the mirror turns and the smoke lifts. In any event, they have created something memorable—more than the average lifespan gives to the up and comer—as Fort Nightly is both a caveat and a consummation of creative concept. |