Pity the Black Kids. The Jacksonville, Florida, band rocketed to the
top of the internet shit pile last fall, fueled by favorable blog posts
from NME, Vice, the Village Voice, and perhaps
most importantly an effusive 8.3 “Best New Music” review from Pitchfork
of their four-song demo EP, Wizards of Ahhhs. Of course, such a
rapid ascent, to mix metaphors a bit, can lead to a bad case of the
bends. And last week, Pitchfork posted a back-pedaling 3.3 review of
the band’s major-label full-length debut, Partie
Traumatic—the review was nothing more than a picture of two
sad-looking pugs (one beige, one black) with LOL Cats–style text
reading simply, “Sorry :-/”
It’s old news that the pace of pop culture is always accelerating,
but it still must suck to go from next big thing (on the strength of
what was basically a single) to backlash all before even getting one
album out.
What’s really baffling, though, is that initial hype. The EP coasted
by on the situationally cheeky jangle and mope of “I’m Not Gonna Teach
Your Boyfriend How to Dance with You” and the boy/girl
call-and-response of “Hit the Heartbrakes” (both of which appear on
this album in polished forms). The other songs, in clearer light, sound
merely like decent B-sides.
Black Kids are, in some corners, being posited as a sort of next
Vampire Weekend. But Vampire Weekend had a whole album of great songs
to feed their frenzied reception. Partie Traumatic, for its
occasional charms—slick guitars and synths, lead singer Reggie
Youngblood’s wounded croon, some pleasant though
forgettable
choruses—is not an album of great songs.
And while their so-so songs are wrapped in pretty enough production,
it’s rightfully panned as not terribly original. Generously, Black Kids
rip off the Cure; more accurately, they rip off Hot Hot Heat and add
more egregious fake British accents. (Note: This review isn’t backlash;
The Stranger never drooled over these kids in the first
place.)