The Constantines
Lord knows I’m not especially good at that kind of prognostication. Maybe I’m just not organized enough–my office is crammed with an ever-growing pile of CDs that all end up separated from their cases sooner or later. Sometimes I feel like I could listen to this stuff 24 hours a day without a single galvanizing jolt of unexpected pleasure–it’s like sifting through all the sand on a beach because you think you spilled a packet of heroin there a couple years ago. When the glossy magazines trot out their stories about the Death of Rock every few years, it’s hard not to laugh. Death? There’s not even a shortage. Come on over and help yourself. Bring a truck.
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Keyboard player Will Kidman’s contributions might be doomed to footnote status (despite his high-quality chair dancing), but I found myself appreciating them more than the flashier foreground stuff: his lines ground, underline, and emphasize the shapes of the songs, churning along under the spiky postpunk guitars. When a sudden transition cuts him off and he finally lifts his fingers from those keys, his absence rings out like a bell. These guys may be perfectly happy to work inside their comfort zone, rather than going out on a limb, but their comfort zone is awfully wide–and all the parts click together so snugly that every dropout, every twitch, every stiff hop or rattlesnake strike manages to feel like a surprise while at the same time persuading you that it had to happen at that exact moment.
