Exploding Hearts: Guitar Romantic

What an awesome title. Guitar Romantic. Without getting too thinky, the album does have a capital-R Romanticism about it, how even the most twisted situations and hopeless heartbreaks attain a larger-than-life quality. Such is the power of a good-goddamned guitar rock record, to say it without saying it. To be brash and earnest at the same time. But that's not what you're thinking about when you're actually listening to it. That comes later if at all. When the record spins, all you can think is how much it fucking rocks.

With a vintage swing, accented by a very appropriate soundbreaking low-fi loudness, the band pumps up New York Dolls an MC5 punk riffs, and attaches them to the black-and-white teen-dream lyrical motifs of the 50's, with a few small street-level augmentations like glue-sniffing and torn posters. Vocalist Adam Cox sounds a little like Joey Ramone and a little like Buddy Holly. His bandmembers join in when appropriate on call-and-answer lyrics to lend a sympathetic ear to the heartbreak of a song like "Sleeping Aides and Razorblades." Under "Throwaway Style" there's a cute little piano counter-melody beneath the stammering guitar riff.

I can't even really talk about it. It's not worth over-examining because that misses the point of the immediate joy of the loud, crazy killer feeling you get when you're in the midst of it, which of course is what makes good music so goddamned hard to talk about. On "I'm a Pretender," Cox sings "21 but it ain't no fun / Life's going by but it's just begun." The ten tracks manage to maintain this urgent immediacy, the complete and total devotion to the moment and the feeling that whatever's important at that moment -- either romantic pursuit or romantic rejection -- is the most important thing in the world. No time to linger, though, there's another one coming along in two and a half minutes.

The Exploding Hearts are no slouches here. They keep their lyrics uncomplicated because there's nothing that needs to be said more complicated. They paint some great lyrical sketches and fire them off, rattled along by razor sharp riffs and pounding drums. Their brand of punk is sneakily intelligent because it doesn't try to be smarter than it is, and results in a great direct statement. They let a few bits of sophistication sneak in, wisely: those couple piano riffs under some late tracks, the evocative Travis-picked intro to "Jailbird" and the overall harmonies and interplay say more than a better vocabulary ever could. The great thing about music is that if you play it well enough, you don't to string it to overly poetic lyrics, because a good rock chord progression always speaks for itself. That's not even a knock against the lyrics, because I'd rather these guys rhyme "Hard" with "Retard" than try to force some elaborate metaphor that isn't any deeper or more meaningful. "Jailbird" is a particular favourite of mine, but "Sleeping Aides" is the real juggernaut, and every song offers its own thrill.

So it walks this line, skilfully, between artful construction and punk sloppiness. It's not one or the other, it just happens that the chaos falls into place perfectly and so it becomes clean pop wearing the skin of raucous punk. It's both and neither, a beautiful mess of hooks and choruses, with, most importantly, a good goddamned sense of humour and vitality. So they fall back on the old chords, big whup. Better than settling for the new ones everyone else was using at the time.

After "Still Crazy," one of many real rave-ups, the album ends at only 28 minutes. A shame, but appropriate. The album, like youth, like many relationships, and tragically like the band itself, is not meant to last too long. Music like this makes important material out of unimportant heartaches, makes every little thing count, and lets you go in the nick of time.

Buy this album from iTunes now!