The Faint: New-Wave Kleptomaniacs

With the "punk revival" having run aground, it was inevitable the next retro flashback was gonna be "new wave"–how much so became apparent with the release of the latest New Order album in September. The whoosh of the snap-drums and the hum of the synth–not to mention the nouveau romantique pose–signified a full-blown revival of Reagan era techno-decadence.

Actually, I’ve been begging for this revival since the great Romania album in 1995–those two feebs anticipated the new wave of new wave, but apparently it was a fluke because they disappeared shortly thereafter. What a lot of people have missed is the crucial difference between "new wave" and "techno"–the latter is merely a mechanized form of repetition aimed at the same kind of mindless uniformity as disco. New wave, on the other hand, was once upon a time supposed to be the next step after "punk" and everything that entailed in a postmodern sense–it was the "music of the future" as envisioned by ninnies who thought we’d be dancing on the moon by now instead of dancing in lockstep to faceless Euro-rhythms. There’s an almost violent undertow to the best new wave (think early Devo) that demonstrably puts its grim, futuristic premise–a foreboding shadow of doom that, in rock terms, goes back to David Bowie and Black Sabbath, whose sci-fi visions set the pace for the total android abandon of the original new wave (Ultravox, Tubeway Army, Cabaret Voltaire, etc.).

My first encounter with the Faint was two days before Sept. 11, when they played at a roadhouse called the Skinny in Portland, ME, which was the equivalent of playing in the middle of a cow pasture–but then again, being from Nebraska, they’re used to it. Although the grim events that were imminent had yet to unfold, there was a foreboding subtext to the Faint’s performance that was unforgettable: onstage they were a lurching foursome wielding their little corgi-organs like the proverbial bop guns, and gesticulating in this overt robotic manner that recalled such original new-wavers as the Cars or Devo. The music was a loping wave of heavy synth burble, but the difference was, like the original new wavers–and unlike techno or hiphop sissies–the Faint had a full rhythm section. They are a rock band, after all. The thing I didn’t know at the time, however, was that they might be one of the most pretentious bands in the world.

Since then, I’ve become aware of the Faint’s entire oeuvre–turns out they’ve made three albums for the Nebraskan indie Saddle Creek. Interestingly enough, listening to them in chronological order it’s apparent now that the Faint’s new-wave-ization was actually gradual, almost as if they devolved into the androids they’ve become after a UFO landed in the cornfields they call home and doused them with a mutant-spawning dose of transparent radiation. The first album, Media, released in 1998, found them still straddling the line between typically slanted indie-rock minor-chord dirges (think Sonic Youth, Pavement, Sebadoh, etc.) and more anthemic 80s mechanisms (the oddly named "Getting/Giving the Lock" is snap-drum heaven). The creaking intro to "Some Incriminating Photographs" is not only typical 80s synth pop, it’s almost John Cougar-ish! Once again, the bighearted Midwestern stuff...it’s something that, at least on this album, the Faint couldn’t avoid, but at the same time were desperately trying to live down with their somewhat contrived new-wave android act.

By the time of Blank-Wave Arcade, their new-wave fetish was coming more to the fore–for one thing, there was the album’s name; for another, the almost homoerotic cover; and then there were songs with titles like "Worked Up So Sexual" and "Casual Sex," which suggested that perhaps they were delving into a more perverse realm. The opening track, "Sex Is Personal," was a complete Cars "Candy-O" cop, with some Duran Duran thrown in, and the words, although seemingly about lovedoll-love, were totally indecipherable. One thing about these guys–they have the worst lyrics in rock. They can palm it off as "new wave" all they want, but what’s one to make of atrocious couplets like: "Her tales of the tour and a hardcore life/Were unmatched by the pop subculture in mine"? If Belle and Sebastian are the Tom Jones of the new milieu, these guys are the Richard Harris or Rod McKuen–no question. What it all demonstrated was a heap of pretensions that were bound to blossom more fully once the Faint achieved a modicum of notoriety.

Which I guess they have with the new album, Danse Macabre, even though the reviews so far have been mixed. The first thing one notices is that it has an even more homoerotic cover than Blank-Wave Arcade and even more violent and whooshing synth work. In fact, it may be the most fully realized new-wave statement since Devo’s Duty Now for the Future.

But it’s also, in many ways, their worst album, because it’s such an obvious gag–"Glass DanseWorld" is downright rubbery in its synthetic excess, which would be great if the Faint didn’t adorn the song, which is a rather boring exercise anyway, with prissy lyrics like, "an infant tries to danse as it grows up then dies." In "Total Job," Todd Baechle really throws himself into almost-spastic vocals, and the group really lays down the rubber once again, but it falls flat because there isn’t an ounce of sincerity in it. I guess that’s what being an "android" is all about, but it’s still phony in a way that, say, Devo wasn’t–those spuds, who also hailed from the Midwest, may have been inhuman, but one still got the feeling that at least they believed in their own "de-volution" hype. The Faint, on the other hand, falls more on the callous side of Duran Duran, a kissy-poo band of pretentious indie-rock brats who, five or six years ago, would’ve become Purple Ivy Shadows (or worse). Now they’re using their "retro" affectations as a kind of holier-than-thou form of one-upmanship in a move that should soon reduce them to the loneliest androids in the cow pasture.

Actually, Danse Macabre is virtually identical to just about any Depeche Mode album you could name. And if that’s not bad enough, there was a sticker affixed to my copy that read: "If you see this CD for sale in a store, feel free to take it. It’s as much yours as it is theirs." Needless to say, this could spawn an embarrassing predicament for–as well as legal proceedings against–anyone stupid enough to heed their advice.

Let it be known: along with everything else they stand for, the Faint promotes shoplifting!