Caribou
w/Junior Boys, Russian Futurists
Sat May 28, Chop Suey, 9 pm, $10 adv.
Caribou—Canadian producer/Mathematics PhD Dan Snaith—has a habit of using clichés for album titles, but that’s the only thing hackneyed about his music. On 2003’s Up in Flames and the new The Milk of Human Kindness, Snaith exhilaratingly reinvigorates shoegazer and Kraut rock, respectively. By contrast, his debut album (under the name Manitoba, more of which later), 2001’s Start Breaking My Heart, is an exceptional set of bucolically melodic and rhythmically intricate IDM—a style that Snaith says he’s unlikely to revisit.
But, judging from his last two full-lengths, few will regret Snaith’s decision to abandon his Boards of Canada–like laptop introversion, pleasant as it was. Up in Flames dramatically raised Snaith/Manitoba’s profile, earning widespread critical acclaim, which he parlayed into successful tours with Four Tet, Prefuse 73, Broadcast, and Stereolab. The ensuing media hoopla was justified. Up in Flames sounds like Mercury Rev, Spiritualized, and My Bloody Valentine jamming out euphoric psych-pop gems on a sun-kissed mountaintop. Conjuring a seamless blend of psych-rock highlights from the ’60s and ’90s, Flames is one of the most effective mood elevators of the last five years.
Despite the drastic shift in tone between albums one and two, Snaith claims he hasn’t changed his recording methods, even with disc three, The Milk of Human Kindness. “I still use a computer, a big pile of records, and some live instruments in exactly the same way that I did on the first record,” he says.
That MO has served Snaith well. But with momentum for Manitoba accelerating in the aftermath of Up in Flames’ triumphs, and with Snaith making progress on his mathematics doctorate in London, a snag arose. A washed-up punk singer from the Dictators who’d adopted Manitoba as his last name served Snaith a court summons about his use of the moniker. Rather than become ensnared in a costly legal battle, Snaith chose Caribou after “a concoction of peyote, acid, crucifixes, and flatbed trucks and utter remoteness led to the inescapable conclusion that Caribou was the new name.”
With the handle change came a new style. Milk is an explicit homage to the harmonically and rhythmically adventurous German rock of the ’60s and ’70s—especially groups like Can, Neu!, and Amon Duul II. What is it about this sound that inspires Snaith (besides it being some of the greatest music ever recorded)?
“I think your parenthetical remark goes a long way toward my fascination with that music!” he says. “The turn from the ’60s to the ’70s was just a massively exciting time in music as people expanded the remit of rock and jazz music before they became overblown and grandiose a few years later.”
Like the best Kraut rock, Milk induces feelings of psychedelic transcendence without making an obnoxious spectacle. This approach is exemplified by “A Final Warning,” a swirling, motorik romp accentuated by spiritual “om” chants. Similarly, “Bees” fuses the relentless, clipped rhythm of Neu!’s “Hallogallo” with Snaith’s Beach Boys–like vocal harmonies and the laid-back boogie guitar à la J. J. Cale. The song gets more intense and disorienting as it goes. On “Barnowl,” Medicine’s Brad Laner contributes Michael Karoli-esque guitar as the track evokes a more subdued version of Can’s masterpiece “Mother Sky.” When he’s not cruising down sonic Autobahns, Snaith flexes increasingly sophisticated melodic chops and sweetly folky vocals, the latter of which have drawn some critical ire.
“I’m a crap singer,” Snaith admits, “but that’s not really the point. In context, I’m extremely happy with the way [my voice] sounds and it carries my personality into the music.”
That personality previously was enhanced onstage with Snaith and band members Peter Mitton and Ryan Smith donning animal costumes and frequently switching instruments. But that’s changing for this tour. “We aren’t wearing masks anymore. Our first approach to the live show was to drown it in as much strange stimulus as possible. This time around we’ve certainly kept enough of that, but have also become musically cohesive and rely less on gimmickry.”
What won’t change is Snaith’s desire to evolve. “I don’t consciously try to change things each time, but I make music primarily to challenge myself and if I kept going over the same ground, I wouldn’t remain interested for very long. I think that [my particular] melodic sensibility… is what ties the albums together, but in reality that’s probably wishful thinking.”
