Fucked Up, Or Faking It?

By Veronica Murtagh in Arts & Entertainment on Jun 3, 2009 5:00PM

The recent, much publicized antics of stoner-garage act Wavves has everyone taking note of what just might become the defining musical trend of 2009. The recent popularity of experimental acts like Dan Deacon and Animal Collective convinced music fans to think outside the box of head-nodding choral loops and drum solos and embrace the new sound of improvisation. The second half of 2009 sees guitars take the place of samplers as bands both old and new wash off the smiles, don dark shades and take a walk on the wild side.

We recently checked out two leading acts of the drug-den art rock revival, The Horrors and the Crocodiles and find ourselves left with the nagging question—fucked up, or faking it?

The Horrors have made leaps and bounds towards crafting a mature sound since their 2006 debut EP of unpolished, distorted growls and clanging guitar. Their second full length album, Primary Colours, out last month, sees the 5-piece channeling Interpol through black-tinted lenses.

On stage it was immediately evident that The Horrors have left behind every trace of their former screeching, art school abandon. The quintet began their set still as statues while minutes of distorted sound swirled around their motionless bodies. What could have been a powerful intro fell short as the audience realized early on that the band cared more about connecting with their own vanity than their fans. Throughout their set, frontman Faris Badwan never broke his mock-passionate, Ian Curtis-esque stage persona, sneering, whipping his mic cable and rolling his eyes back into his head in faux-junkie gesturing. Behind him, his bandmates looked on with blank stares affixed to the far recesses of the venue.

The Horrors have long suffered from an identity crisis and while their recorded catalog has begun to come into its own, the band's fabricated personas reveal that the harder they fight to define themselves, the emptier they become. The Horrors are, most definitely, faking it.

Relative newcomers the Crocodiles have hit the pavement hard in 2009 with their debut album titled Summer of Hate. The San Diego duo of Brandon Welchez and Charles Rowell craft the kind of lo-fi, garagey shoegaze that turns your eyes to the floor as your head nods itself. The duo's tunes are awash with nostalgia in the best possible way. Lock the Jesus & Mary Chain in a drug den on a heroin comedown in the LES circa Now and you've got the Crocodiles.

There was a familiar awkwardness in Welchez and Rowell's steps as they the took the stage at the Empty Bottle last Saturday night with beers in hand and dark sunglasses shielding their gazes. The duo didn't waste time getting down to business, firing up no less than seven distortion pedals between them and disappearing into a wall of sound. Though they made no effort to directly engage with the enthusiastic audience, it was a voyeuristic, not alienating experience. Standing inches from the stage you could feel the loneliness, the internal struggle and the raw emotion emanating from every note. The Crocodiles are not a band that are going to leap, swagger and gyrate into fan's hearts. The Crocodiles are a band who get that no matter how self-assured we present ourselves on the outside, we all stumble through this life, lost and unsure of our place in the world.

Two bands and two very different show experiences later, we've come to the conclusion that it takes not being fucked up to fully grasp the passion, conflict and power that come with being fucked up.