I have a fascination with sad music. Most of my all-time favorite albums have a sense of grief hidden between tracks; not emo and all its (mostly) petty theatrics, but the John Lennon/Plastic Ono Band sense of grief. The kind of emotions that throb inside a person and shape them, but rarely truly get out. For me, albums such as those are equivalent to a friend you can trust above all others. They understand, and that's what's important. They don't try to sugarcoat life and make it nice and folded and tinsel silver, they understand the grey and the golden days. Rogue Wave's latest, Descended Like Vultures, is one of those albums.
Vultures begins with the excellent "Bird on a Wire," a song that cascades through an ocean of sound ranging from riptides of aural confusion to gorgeous guitar-driven waves of melody, with Zach Rogue's lovely, wistful voice acting as the listener's comforting life preserver. The album continues its driving intensity with "Publish My Love," which reminds me of an organic version of the Flaming Lips' Soft Bulletin sound, and climaxes with "Are You On My Side." This track is especially notable, because within the stutters, whispers, noises, and sweet melodies of Rogue's voice, a shocking intimacy forms between him and the listener. It's hard to conceive after this song who would not agree with Zach Rogue and his whispering asides and playful noises. And if he doesn't sell you, then listen again to the shimmering vibraphone, the ethereal background vocals, the tinkerbell click of tambourine and layers of guitar. Who can say no to something so golden pretty?
The best part of this album, though, is the fact that it is so soothing, but never to the drowsy proportions of southern comfort or warm milk and honey. "10:1" should be played every time someone jumps on a giant trampoline with a sprinkler running underneath it. The chimes and pogo-fast tempo invoke a the kind of wet, semi-dangerous, July-day fun that mothers across the country would surely scold you about enjoying. And album-closer "Temporary," with its tired acoustic guitar, accordion, and organ, is the song your mother should play when helping you into bed after you sprain your ankle jumping and dancing to "10:1". Even the songs that I began mildly disliking, such as "California" (which with its wry, poetic lyrics will most likely find its way onto The O.C. whenever one of the characters decides to leave California), forced themselves into appreciation after frequent listens.
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