My first introduction to Atlanta's Deerhunter was their performance at a sweaty house show. Singer Bradford Cox was perched on top of a shitty P.A. speaker, spitting layer upon layer of snotty vocals through a delay box. The rest of the band held things together, but just barely. Dark, raw no-wave grooves propelled the mess, just inches from falling apart completely. Each song bled into the next. There was something sinister about the whole thing.
The band's Stickfigure full-length came as a surprise at first. Deerhunter's danceable grooves, once buried beneath deep beneath layers of "singing," scraping, and noise, are now exposed. The bass lines sound more catchy, the nasal guitar skronk is funkier, the vocals less eerie. It may be unlikely to show up on any club's dance mixes any time soon, but the vibe is decidedly different than the intense live show.
Make no mistake, however—the songs are not bad; far from it. It's not a bad recording, either, just lacking. Naked, maybe. On a few tracks like "Basement" and "Death Drag," when Cox's eerie half-whisper is at its most haunting and fucked-up, the band playing their sloppiest, one can hear hints of the live show. If these songs are any indication, Deerhunter is one step closer to conveying the live cacophony and finding a mix to do it justice. I can't wait.
