To assume the artist Sea Wolf is any bit comparable to the likes of an actual wolf would simply be wrong. Just as the word "wolf" is embedded in the title, the name might imply a sort of danger, a rather inconsistent disposition, if I may presume to state. The "rock" part of Sea Wolf's indie-rock classification should imply a sense of edginess; yet this is modestly muted here in Boston, at The Paradise Rock Club. All the sweet swagger and flair of an alternative rock show was traded in for the "I'll have your daughter home by nine" sensation.
Maybe it's front man Alex Brown Church's (for God's sake, can we just cut out his middle name?) pack mentality that keeps him playing the Monkees to Benjamin Gibbard to the Beatles. He clearly cannot run on his own as the alpha male. Where Church may fall short in stage dominance, he makes up for it with sheer verisimilitude with a sound something like a poor man's Arcade Fire. It is safe to say Sea Wolf is lacking an all-around presence. He is lacking versatility throughout the whole album, White Water, What Blooms (and for that matter each album preceding it).
Upon first listening to Sea Wolf, each album in its entirety to be exact, I felt someone forgot to turn off the cruise control. Each song just seems to blend right into the next. Nothing changes from song to song, nor does it differ even after switching down the line of albums. Maybe it's his suburban upbringing, having grown up in LA. Nothing about any of this preconceived information strikes me as rags to indie rock glorification. Call me a hard-ass, but I believe these kids should have to work for it. Indie is not a title to be thrown into the back pockets of every musician with a guitar, and a semi-understanding of its melodic power.