Phantom Planet – Phantom Planet (CD)
Sound: B-
Music: B-
It begins
with a dissonant drum-roll, a sloppy percussive wipe-out, then, crawling out of
the mix like an annoyed sea-monster from the Pleistocene, a guitar
screeches! The beat, erratic as a teenage
love affair, resolves itself into a Go-Go’s-like thumpa-thump followed closely
by an oily, monotone drawl intoning, “There’s nothing for me here…” Is this the new Strokes B-side? you ask
yourself. Well, the lads are off their
game on this one, you opine. Then you
realize this isn’t The Strokes, hell, it’s not even The Vines, or any of the
other countless garagey progeny of the NY hit makers. No, it’s the new Phantom Planet CD.
Surprised?
If you’re
familiar with Phantom Planet it’s probably because of one of two things. Either you saw some mention that the kid from
the film Rushmore, Jason
Schwartzman, had a little Rock-N-Roll combo on the side or it’s because you’ve
been assaulted by their song “California”, which just happens to be the
theme song to TVs The OC.
Phantom
Planet’s earlier records had a Weezer-esque pop-sheen to them; a sunny glaze
that was as pleasant and as easily forgotten as a lazy summer afternoon spent
watching Brady Bunch re-runs. But this new record? What’s going on here? Who put out the sun and sleazed it all up?
Let’s
take a closer look, shall we.
By all
indication Phantom Planet is a
textbook example of what happens when Rock by committee goes wrong. I won’t bore you with a snarky treatise on
Corporate Rock-N-Roll and sell-out bands who allow themselves to be molded by
Svengali-like producers into the flavor-of-the-week in order to sell truckloads
of product and grab the cover of Rolling Stone.
I’m not going to do that because I think as arguments go it’s a fool’s game. Some of the best pop records ever made were
created by committee. Producers,
writers, session musicians, and name performers coming together with one goal,
to create a gem of a record that the public digs, is a valid path to pop
success. Look at what came out of
Motown, the Brill Building, and Stax. Just take a gander at the records made under
the mad, gleaming gaze of the gun-toting genius of Phil Spector. Is there anyone out there who thinks less of Pet Sounds because, essentially, it’s
Brian Wilson and a crack group of sessioneers with The Beach Boys being
relegated to being little more than wind instruments themselves? Would that have been a better record had
Dennis Wilson played all of the percussion himself? So let’s just say it here once and for all, a
good record is a good record, I don’t care how it got made just so long as it
exists and it moves me.
On paper
this CD was a no-brainer. Take one
young, photogenic band with the right Hollywood connections, add a hip producer
known for dazzling productions of bands famous for oft-times wacky, but still
intensely creative brilliance, then graft it all to the pop sound of the
moment.
OK, so
far that looks like a formula for success.
If anyone needed further convincing to greenlight such a project they
need only have looked at the string of successful albums that Butch Vig
produced right after doing Nirvana’s Nevermind.
So we’ve
got the right band, let’s get a hot producer.
Enter the knob-noodling Dave Fridmann.
Fridmann’s known for his baroquely detailed production work for The
Flaming Lips, The Delgados, and Mercury Rev to name but a few of his previous
stunners. This is someone who knows the
perfect way to work a singing saw into virtually any song you give him. Now that’s a special talent!
So far it
still looks good: up and coming pop band that’s very friendly with a catchy
hook + genius producer famous for transforming simple songs into breathtakingly
ornate cathedrals of sound. Boy, that’s
a record I can’t wait to hear!
Then it
all goes wrong, because instead of stopping there, rather than realize that
Fridmann was brilliant enough to mastermind a production that allowed even the
likes of that kid from Blue’s Clues
to garner glowing pools of positive prose from the critics, they go and tie him
to the worst possible hype of the moment for this particular project: Garage
Punk. And let’s be honest, the moment
for that particular sonic fad is long past (when was the last time you saw The
Hives on a magazine cover?), so what were they thinking?
Instead
of a gorgeous pop album, one with boundless depths of lovely instrumentation
and angelic harmonies, what has been delivered in this new Phantom Planet CD is a monochromatic mess. There are no highs and lows here, no clever
song structures, and most definitely no pretty pop. That squelchy slop I mentioned at the
beginning of this article wends its way through the whole dreary album. How perfectly disappointing all of it is.
After
spending the morning listening to
Phantom Planet several times, after having spent a week intently cocking my
ear toward the speaker while it played in my house, I can’t remember even one
of the songs. Not a single lyric, nor a
single chord can I summon sitting here writing this article. And that, I truly believe, is the most
damning criticism you can level at a record.
This is
one instant of pop music by committee failing miserably.
It would
do anyone listening to Phantom Planet, including
the band itself, a great service to return to The Strokes albums which were
clearly used as a template here. Yes,
The Strokes have monotone ennui and sleazy insouciance down to a science, but
they also have clearly studied the great pop songs of the past. Like The Ramones before them, they have taken
smartly crafted songs, bent them to their own purposes, and made it look easy
enough that anyone else could do the same.
But listen to any track on Room
On Fire, I mean really listen to it, and you’ll find yourself in a master
class of subtle technique and thoughtful craftsmanship.
Maybe
next time out Phantom Planet, their managers, the company execs, whoever the
hell it was that made this album possible, will know better and leave well
enough alone. At least we’ll always have
“California”.
- Kristofer Collins
