3/5

Most mediocre indie pop can be traced back to a single cause and reaction. Like a Rube Goldberg machine of second-rate formulas, a verse will be flung out in to a cavity of clumsily repeated power chords, spiral down through a knit-wool chorus of nasal congested sighs, be channelled in to a stream of diluted verses that somehow justify rhyming 'girl' with 'girl', until it finally flops in to a pit of acoustic outro strums: a lifeless corpse of AABA pop refuse. Somewhere in Middle American a fifteen year old has placed his sebaceous little fingers in to G chord and begun this cycle. Somewhere in Chicago an electro-acoustic trio will have created the second of five successful Pedro the Lion tribute albums based on this formula. Somewhere in my soul, a little piece of me will die.

But what’s interesting about International Falls isn’t the aspect of musical formula. It’s how they both act according to {and} subvert standardised indie pop simultaneously. This slight revision of melodic stock is conveniently packaged in to two categories: semi-nostalgic balladry and pop experimentation. At points you can trace chalk between either section mid-song.

The ballads rely on accepted signifiers like acoustic guitars and brushed cymbals that sway in the doorway like little brother to Dan Bejar’s Destroyer after coming clean about stealing his tape deck. I predict amateur zine writers across the country will hunt-and-peck their way to the following line: "{Achievement} achieves ______." {Achievement} achieves chamber pop percussion. {Achievement} achieves earnest boy-girl harmonies. {Achievement} achieves spider-fingered acoustic strumming. Yes, they do this. And yes, many bands do this equally as well.

But if the album does anything extraordinarily well, it’s give a strong case that similarity isn’t redundancy. While there is still a looming presence of typical indie formula in {Achievement}, International Falls manages to leap out of the purgatory of superfluous pop. {Achievement} is in this case the story of associating a familiar overarching indie pop style with the far less common mechanism of subtle gestures, in which International Falls responds to their own analog indie behaviourisms with well-produced structural tangents. Strobing bass lines cut through the customary acoustic strumming, synth-drenched outros straddle industrial drum beats and hand claps, and all moves together in a succinct and winding cogwheel of pop hooks. While their slight experimentative tendencies aren’t about to create a revolution, their combination of pop aesthetic and fresh indie rock arrangements raises them to a higher grade of interest.

Lisa Thomson, somewhere on campus Eric Copeland's SFU fan base of three are groaning a "raaggh!" of frustration at your article "Live Music: Strawberry Jam Band"; in which you criticised the former Black Dice member’s opening act for Animal Collective. You'll probably mistake this sound as a syllable-for-syllable imitation of Copeland’s performance but let me point out the few obvious differences to make it easier for you: The former would be a bunch of kids groaning like a wounded pig and the latter is one guy groaning like a wounded pig at 150 decibels.

I'd first like to commend you for mentioning Black Dice and the line “Why does it feel like my ears are bleeding?” in the same sentence. Them's fightin' words. I'd also like to warn you that when armies of angular-banged indie kids come after us with torches and pitchforks in hand, I will be using your body as a human shield. But really, what in the hell was happening there? The dentist drill tempo, the industrial clatter, the vocal squelching. Oh I get it, it's art because it's unlistenable. Black Dice is always a tricky listen but at the very least their brand of noise rock has some element of rhythm. What Copeland was doing was just the vanity of convoluted noise making.

Emily Gera

Today at the Tiny Mix Tapes Zoological research labs we’ll be taking a look at Scotland’s Frightened Rabbit! Try and keep in groups of two and if you care to avoid having to listen to their entire repertoire of introspective malaise prose then refrain from tapping on their cage please. Remember, here at Tiny Mix Tapes we look out for your best interests.

I’d like to direct your attention toward a few identifying marks; the chunky wool sweater used as protection against Glasgow winters; the uneven stubble known to attract the Inebriated Northern Waif; the shy, mop hair strategically distributed across the face for no discernible reason. In their natural habitat, Frightened Rabbit spend their days honing the vocal signatures of misery pop. If you ever hear atonal whines and sighed whimpers of melody you know you are but steps away from the floppy ears of repressed Scottish misery! But it’s not inconceivable that their twitching faces have been known to develop gems of sincerity. Underneath all their bellyached cries is an animal with inherent talent for atmospheric ferocity, who thrash with the pop exuberance of stuttering reverb buzz and icicle-drenched cymbals. Sometimes in more intimate moments they will drop in to the shady grasses of meditative verse and acoustic thumps then wrestle with pop's linearity, responding with the layered intensity of post rock.

But here in our research wing at Tiny Mix Tapes, this doesn’t exactly compute. Frightened Rabbit override any vibrant composition they may have by raising dreariness to a level of high distinction as they attempt to create the most realistic melodic depictions of 'grey'. The sniffled out titles “The Greys” and “Yawn” are enough to describe the shuffling placidity of this overcast pop trio. While they flirt with nuanced song structure, subtle intelligence is only a fraction of this lovelorn and torpid Rabbit.