draconian - 5-2-2004 at 06:26 PM
Hee hee, tell that to the kids in Buffalo...
[from indielondon.co.uk:]
Review: Jack Foley
LOS Angeles oddballs, Ima Robot, are the latest band to jump on the quirky pop-punk-electronica bandwagon, but they do so with some considerable
charm.
Arriving in the wake of bands such as Hot Hot Heat and, to a lesser degree, The Rapture, this offbeat quintet are knowingly bizarre - yet endearingly
so - making their eponymous debut an album that is impossible to dislike, but, at times, a tad inaccessible.
The influences seem to fly thick and fast, from the obscure Bowie of the Ziggy Stardust era, to the glamrock-styled anthems of Queen, right down to
the acute vocal style of John Lydon.
Yet there is also an idiosyncrasy about many of the tracks, which make them distinctly fresh.
The album is at its finest when coming straight at you, delivering indie-flavoured pockets of joy, such as Scream and Let's Talk Turkey.
But it can also get a little too bizarre, as in the sprawling, operatic What Are We Made From final track, which, one suspects, attempts to do for Ima
Robot what something like Bohemian Rhapsody did for Freddie Mercury and co.
Sadly, there'll be no headbanging along in a car to this one, as its a little too off the wall for its own good - and a rather messy way of
bringing the album to a close.
Had Ima Robot sticked to the breezy style of earlier tracks, which provoke most comparisons with the likes of Hot Hot Heat, we may have been talking
about a minor classic; as it is, we have something of a hit-and-miss affair, which just about remains worthy of checking out.
The opening guitar rifts of first track, Dynomite, tease you with a Breeders-style loop, before quite literally exploding into life with a
jump-around-style anthem which seems tailor-made for the campus crowd.
Things continue in suitably pumped-up fashion with the thrashing guitars of Song #1, which provide an excellent showcase for Alex Ebert's edgy
vocal style.
And they really come into their own by the time you reach Alive and the album highlight, Scream, which has single written all over it; but then the
breezy ease of such moments is intermittently replaced by more quirky numbers, such as the sleazy Dirty Life and the wildly excessive Here Come The
Bombs, during which Ebert opts for screeching as opposed to singing.
It's a shame, because such moments do threaten to undermine the overall joy that comes with listening to the majority of the album. But if
you're willing to cast them aside, then Ima Robot is well worth plugging into.