The Lynnfield Pioneers

Emerge (Matador)
by Nik Rainey

…and Emerge The Lynnfield Pioneers do, out of a rust-eaten, ding-studded beater chrysalis, a gang o’ Brooklyn pupa so raw they’re still drippin’ ectoplasmic placenta like it was 10W30 off a dipstick. The LPs’ first LP has been spattered with cockeyed comparisons from critics desperate to piss the truest line in the sand ‘n’ demarcate these kids’ territory as their own in that gilt-edged-by-association way many of us have (Here Come the Warm Jets meets the Lyres? Howzabout you put the Oblique Strategies review-writing dartboard away and listen to the damn thing?), but other’n the cheap-ass atonal Farfisa trills that deface several songs in much the same way the no-wavers colored their otherwise-monochromatic, teeter-tottering aural edifices, the flickering flourescents that buzz inspirationally over their heads aren’t really swiped from anyone’s fixtures but their own, assiduous record collectors that they reportedly are notwithstanding. When the tempo is up, they manage to infuse the standard flat-footed indie-rock beat with an ineffable sense of motion that rides a pale groove without grafting on an ill-fitting negri ‘tude and just coming off silly; “Let’s Go For A Ride” and “Get Off Your Feet” are bratty exhortations to move that swing with sincerity (and I don’t need to tell you how rare those attributes are in this particular idiom). When it’s down, you may catch a couple of familiar whiffs (mainly cuz white guys who can’t really sing trying to pull off cooing choral harmonies are inevitably gonna sound like Pavement), but when the love song (“Cynthia”) is about as heartfelt as the ode to “Lucite,” you’re again deep in territory that justifies no precedents. So, tempus fuggit, baby, why don’t I just shut my mouth and send you plowin’ right into the Pioneers’ tract of land, no passport required?