(From the press kit: “These colorful limited edition covers are made from 100% recycled vintage file folders purchased at the Salvage Broker in Seattle. Each one is Gold Stamped with Original art by Jeremiah Green.”)
OK, so you don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about – what this Vells? you say daftly. I told you, sucka, I fucking told you all about the Vells like over a fucking year ago! That divine EP on Luckyhorse back then – ring a bell? And then Professor Short told you more, here go see for yourself.
But I’m not one to hype wrangle.
And, shit, the EP was damn near pop perfect. And, alright, at first glance this full-length seems like it should have been an EP as well, ‘cause the Floyd nasal drips like “All in All” come off as shitmung drags. I mean, I get it, I get the psychedelic pop thing. I hear the Zep and Ringo drums, I feel the faux-vinyl crackle, the hopping organ, and I’m down with the throwback hot tracks.
OK, not so much, I’m kind of sick of living in the past actually. What ever happened to our “Bridge to the 21st Century?” Rock and roll and Bush Jr. both be trying to hunt and gather it seems.
But at least Marcum has no interest in channeling Iggy in vain (hey all you would be shithead grave robbers, the guy is still fucking alive, for fuck’s sake! – grow some goddam shame!) during his adventures in time travel. No, he’s riding in a yellow submarine, putting another brick in the wall, climbing a stairway to heaven, cocking his revolver, and choking on ham sammiches.
Aw hell, why not. You know? Why the hell not!?!
I’ll tell you why not – it’s a fucking drag man-nnnn! And it just comes across as so reactionary. So some shmuck compared you to the Shins last time out, so what! So you had to sabotage your brilliant songs with built in degeneration and arbitrary fuzz??? That’s how we combat stupidity in the year 2004? Help me out here, I’m totally fucking lost....
Granted, the cyber-witch thing on “The Rhyme Sees Mine” is bitching. It also fucking jams, which is the biggest problem with the four tracks in front of it – no jam, no pop, no sizzle, no FAG POWER! But then there’s that droning dead mother fucker following it that comes to life gorgeously about halfway through with barely a chord change. And thinking back, “Time the Deceiver” sneaks up on us, opening wide for a cathedral finish....
But that’s the key here isn’t it?
OK, if I had to make a dumbass guess, I’d say all these songs were fodder in a grander experiment in manipulating entropy. You kill and rape the jams and try to resurrect the DOA’s. Right? Right? That’s why the record kicks off with “In The Hours of Flowers,” the song that seems like a missing track from the EP, but then disintegrates into a cymbal melee – right? And “Hello Medeana,” which actually becomes a completely different song halfway through! And then all that pseudo-stoner shit in the middle!
Ah, for cripe’s sake, I can’t for a second speak to Marcum’s intentions, but regardless of what he had in mind, the mutha fucka is brilliant. Flight From Echo Falls is easily one of the most aggravating, perplexing, discombobulating, metanoid, and by proxy fascinating records I’ve heard in years. It doesn’t let you sleep, do you understand? No sleep, must listen, must grow furious, must go apathetic, must spew contempt, must repent, must feel foolish, must rejoice, must ride!
I said it to begin with, and then walked tritely right into the Pink Floyd booby trap, but I’m back in the game, and I’ll say it again – Gold, bitch, Gold!
RELEASE YEAR 2004