A window on Baltic and Smith streets; my Brooklyn domicile where a ripe, summer rain sweetens beaded parked cars, coats the peppered black asphalt, and couples plod by perfectly paired to absorb the Sunday romance of it all. These are a few of the casual observations that occur peaking out my bedroom window.
It's the Fruit Bats third record that sets this scene...and I'm confident from note number one that this will be the best The Ruminant Band (Sub Pop) will ever sound. Like the showers coating hometown Brooklyn this afternoon, this precious piece of pop, complete with its' own colorful, cartoony cityscape gracing its' cover, is harmless in its' recorded nature. Over the course of a listen, expect to hear an album pieced together with galloping piano and gooey pedal steel ("Being On Our Own"). Don't hesitate to snap your paws to the kind of tangy guitar solos that probably caused quite the commotion when first the band cycled through the instrumental bridge of "My Unusual Friend" (I can picture plenty of practice space kudos and proclamations of, "wow...that rocked!"). Be bliss to the late night, acoustic concoctions, probably written and recorded with this very damp moment in mind ("Singing Joy to the World"). Imagine your own barefoot run in with a delightful, young hobo girl ("The Hobo Girl").
This, it seems, is what this reflexive little wonder demands...but only when its' bright melody and major chord construction picks the precise flash in time. Admittedly, I had given The Ruminant Band a whirl several times before at work, on the train, etc etc - with little reaction on my part. But here, today, in my bedroom...Fruit Bats reveal their undeniable charm.
Which is probably just the point of their pop. Fruit Bats invoke thoughts of the here and now, and hopefully, an ultimate appreciation of the moment. They're here for you, however you may need them. They'll "be the blanket on your feather bed", as Eric D. Johnson admits in "Feather Bed". They'll "be the lump of sugar in your tea". All they ask in return is a little "too much love". And gazing out upon the waterlogged world of my own neighborhood, too much love seems like just the right amount. David Pitz