It begins with a crackle of tingling electricity running from ear to shoulder, through arm to fingertips. ‘Shadow Committee’ may be the on-paper curtain up, but the single’s preceded by some Stars Of The Lid-like drift work that engrosses with absolute immediacy, setting the stage for the grandeur to follow.
It takes over a minute for the cello stabs of the opener proper to explode into brilliant life, the wash of orchestral drone replaced by an urgent arrangement that mirrors the burning desire of its makers to achieve beyond their accolades to date. They feel – they should feel – that they’re capable of more, and with this album they’re taking the steps to spread their name further and wider.
Grammatics’ M.O. is ostensibly lighters-aloft indie-rock with string embellishments, but come the first sky-high soar of ‘Shadow Committee’ it’s evident that their emotional grasp on the listener far exceeds the impression of simple cut-and-paste compositions. The vocals of Owen Brinley are sure to be an early-doors opinion-splitter – the band’s MySpace page jokingly credits him as a “squealer” rather than a singer – but if you can engage with the passion rather than the performance, you’re sure to conquer said doubt with ease.
And the album goes from brilliant to, arguably, better, with another single release ‘D.I.L.E.M.M.A.’ containing more drama in its four and a half minutes than you’ll hear across the whole of the debut album from their present touring partners, Red Light Company. The track’s slow-build mechanics, replete with spoken-word utterances of its title (as initials, of course), are surprisingly affecting, even on ears long exposed to songwriters with outpourings designed solely to pluck the heartstrings rather than exercise the dancing shoes. It really is quite The Special.
Of course, the momentum can’t be completely maintained – such a strong start is sure to lead to a slipping of quality, even if in this case that actually equals less of a slide, more of a steadying. After all, no band can sustain such articulation of naked emotion for a full long-player – they’d go insane (as would we, most likely). So, ‘Murderer’ slows the pace, plotting a course again for the soft innards of the listener but doing so with a little less elegance than what comes before it; plus, the lyrical structure, which relies on abundant repetition, doesn’t suit the delicious post-rock hues that surround it. ‘Broken Wing’ presents an acoustic strum to the fore of a battered-down ballad, again an acknowledgement that comparative convention needs treading for the supreme to stand out superbly (even if the track detonates with just under three minutes remaining, doubling in volume and scaring the crap out of any household pets.)
‘Polar Swelling’ stands proud as another highlight among a set of true quality – Brinley is clearer in the mix than the album’s opening brace, but his approach to execution is similarly pivotal. He is indeed the fulcrum upon which Grammatics’ sound rocks back and forth; for all their stylistic shifts and playful experimentation, the singer’s presence maintains the coherency necessary in any classic album. Wait… classic album?
Perhaps we’ll (I’ll) regret saying as much six months from now when everything goes tits up in the Grammatics camp – the cellist runs off to join some symphony orchestra or something – but right now this self-titled debut shines as one of the best domestic albums to reach these ears in recent memory. Any record that can begin with such a flourish of anti-fashionable decadence, as emotionally intoxicating as it is technically impressive, and close with the listener still completely invested in its myriad textures and undulating waves of ambitious amplification gets the thumbs up from this writer.
Who, now, will rest his hands to enjoy ‘Grammatics’ without the critical ear engaged. Sit down, sink in, swim away… the shore will soon be lost.
