Review: Two Inch Astronaut - Foulbrood
By Marc Blanc, Staff Writer
[Exploding in Sound; 2014]
Rating: 8/10
Key Tracks: “Foulbrood,” “Dead White Boy,” “Cigarettes, Boys, and Movies”
D.C. punk in the tradition of Dischord grips the underground’s attention yet again. As significant the release of Fugazi’s First Demo is, it would be worth exponentially less if there were no modern groups reworking the Dischord sound. Ian Mackaye should pay attention to one youthful trio from Silver Springs, Maryland, just north of D.C., because not only is it driving his noise to new places, but it’s further lionizing his influence through its own phenomenal album.
Two Inch Astronaut has on its hands a sophomore LP entirely of its own identity, a treasure for a band this small. The principles are familiar--tense augmented chords, mathy guitars, quiet-loud dichotomies--but Foulbrood is far more delicate than most of its classmates in classical post-hardcore.
The title track is intricately rhythmic, even groovy, but somehow sheds nothing from its post-punk label. Frontman Sam Rosenberg, who plays like he’s formally trained, works the guitar and bass with as much angst as any ‘90s-nostalgic rocker, yet resists any sludge in order to keep a sensitive sound, despite a production value beneath any professional studio.
“Dead White Boy” is the seven-minute pinnacle of a record full of masterful juxtapositions--its soft moments lamenting the death of a classmate, its speaker-shattering crescendos accusing the mourners of not “liking him that much.” The most enthralling seven minutes since TWIABP’s “Getting Sodas,” the track is both gorgeous and abrasive, like butterflies freezing over.
Rosenberg is an impressively versatile vocalist, possessing the control to leap from a tender sigh to the imperative screams within a bar, but his voice can slip into modern rock commonplace. Thankfully, his guitar work is articulate enough that one would be able to tell what a song is about even if Rosenberg caught laryngitis.
A cult high school dramedy could be soundtracked by “Cigarettes, Boys, and Movies,” the entire story of teenage nostalgia expressed perfectly by a golden progression of sentimental chords. Of course, the lyrics just intensify the universally sad arrangement: “Cigarettes, boys and movies / No longer mean nothing to me / Tell me, when did we get so old?”
Not to obsess over the frontman, but Matt Gatwood does remarkable things with a snare drum, and the entire kit sounds the way it always should in lo-fi: muffled, like there’s a dishtowel on the skins. There’s something so modest and DIY about it, and it adds to the relatability of this album; any basement drummer will think of their own days on the throne upon listening.
“No Feelings” and “Black Fridge Area,” however, comprise the hard middle and are the most inaccessible points, favoring left-of-the-dial chord progressions and tempo changes over infectious melody. Here the band is most like Fugazi and least like itself, but originality quickly returns on “1, 2, Talk,” a refreshing shoegaze-inspired piece placed precisely where the record needs a digression from the Dischord conventions.
Wayne Coyne of The Flaming Lips said, “If I’m doing the job right, I can make my story feel like your story.” Two Inch Astronaut does it right on Foulbrood, even as tense and heavy as the LP can get, because the melodies are catchy enough and the lyrics honest enough. What indie rock head can fight the urge to shout along with the “Type Four” angst, “You’ve probably never even heard of it / What the f**k?”
Like a beautiful wedding, the concept of marrying tenderness with raucousness is an ancient concept, but it will never die. Two Inch Astronaut makes the institution vibrant and exhilarating again, with a prodigal album destined for a life of plays and praise.
