Deerhunter
Rainwater Cassette Exchange
(Kranky, 2009)

Deerhunter is an oddity in the current landscape of What Is Now Indie. They play relatively static, Spacemen 3-inspired drone rock with less the weight and grandeur of du jour space metal like Isis or Sunn O))), but rather the dollar-bin post-Velvet-isms of the Stratford 4 and Unwound. A great thing really, as I’m not much for metal, but their problem is an affliction shared by many bands saddled with the expectations of Rockcrit 2.0—delivering on the cult of personality that’s the real reason you’ve heard of them. Despite some beautiful album art (Cryptograms), shocking titles (their self-titled debut album was alternately titled Turn It Up Faggot), solo indulgences (Atlas Sound, Lotus Plaza), and enough backstory to fill Jack Kerouac’s Benzedrine-operated quill, none of Deerhunter’s pre-2008 records are any good. Bradford Cox made love/hate waves with his incomprehensible Pitchfork reception, posting pictures of band members’ feces on the Deerhunter blog, picking fights with rock journalists, and generally making more memorable news than any tunes.

A provocateur in search of the full package, basically, he calmed down, apologized for his antics, reinstated an aghast guitar player, and turned out last year’s Microcastle—not only his first good record, but his first great one. Barring some dead air in the middle, the album’s numerous excellent moments rank with the best Yo La Tengo drones floating in syrup and lemon for a melted summer day, and finally delivering on the disturbing lyrics apropos of his psyche to match: Try “Agoraphobia”, which takes its title so literally that its protagonist wants to be buried and kept alive rather than face the world. Not everyone gets a second chance to prove they’re not a fraud—just ask Devendra Banhart. But Cox finally put up or shut up—established himself with humor and reason for being.

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