Review Summary: Set in the red and gold American Rust Belt the conflict between youthful idealism and the brutality of adulthood comes to a head in Sitcom Afterlife. Frontier Ruckus has much and more to say in this dense volume of folk-driven midwestern poetry.
Here we are, autumn again - full of familiar falling leaves and new sweater clad stories waiting to be told. Painted amber and bronze by a symphony of harmonica, brass, banjo, and bass Sitcom Afterlife places you in autumns past, present, and future. In 2014 Frontier Ruckus, the unsung indie poets of the Great Lakes, released this vibrant third coast soliloquy. While not the strongest release of the year, the band penned a rich, sentimental story only they could be capable of telling.
The album kicks off with bright folk rock instrumentation which is turned sideways by disarming melancholy lyricism - akin to bands like The Mountain Goats & Neutral Milk Hotel - whose fans will find a lot to like here. And like those bands, whether you'll like this album is dependent on your impression of the singer. Frontier Ruckus' Matthew Milla delivers a distinctive falsetto that is vulnerable but flat - though it is delivered with an earnestness that sells it well. This is supported by backup vocals courtesy of band mate Anna Burch which provide an added sweetness and texture to the vocal harmonies. But this is of little consequence; Frontier Ruckus isn't here to serenade you so much as it is to recite poetry. And what poetry it is!
You'll be hard pressed to find such rich, vivid prose anywhere else in the indie scene. Each stanza stacks on top of one another, furiously wrapping you in a whirlwind of old photo albums and snapshot memories. Equal parts manic and nostalgic it conjures images of first kisses, first cars, first crushes, and first crashes. The narration is unapologetically sentimental; it presents you with a living, breathing simulacra of an idealized midwestern youth that may never have existed.
The backdrop of Sitcom Afterlife is equally vivid and decidedly midwestern. Retail ruins superimposed on the backwoods of the Great Lakes; back yards and rusty sailboats, empty parking lots and AA meetings. Any listeners growing up in the decaying American Rust Belt may find themselves uncomfortably at home in the confines of this record.
The decay of their surroundings seems to seep into the coming of age of this record's subjects - rotting them from the outside in. The delirium of hazy childhood summers is soon contrasted by that of drug fueled tragedy and betrayal. The constant conflict found in the album is that between the tender romanticism of the author and the self-destructive revelry of his various lovers. As hard as he tries to look back on the sweet memories of his past he can't seem to get away from the thought of them rotting through his fingers:
"The electric static of our bodies sparking on - "
"The carpet and the mattress - "
"Something made a tar pit out of what was once a fortress..."
He speaks of his romantic entanglements with a passion that is all the more tragic when contrasted with their ruin:
"All your private and precious locales - "
"All your hidden heavens and all your pals - "
"Are gonna succumb to the brutal gravity, baby, I know..."
And the prose and poetry continues on and on, almost to its detriment. The density and rapid fire pace of the lyricism is so potent that it can get downright exhausting, especially if you fail to develop a liking for the singer's tone. His cracking vulnerability and limited range don't lend themselves well to the rock-oriented delivery of this album, especially when compared to the campfire crooning of the band's earlier releases. The instrumentation follows suit; as pretty as the harmonica, banjo, and guitar work are they tend to crowd each other, burying their hooks and harmonies. The result is a colorful record that struggles to organize its own ambitions.
So it comes to no surprise that this album is at its strongest when the band pours as much of its energy into writing catchy melodies as it does in penning poetic lyrics, even if this isn't playing to their strengths. You can see this in practice in Sitcom Afterlife's strongest track: "Little Henrietta." The song bursts out of the gate with an infectious harmonica lead and rollicking banjo, bolstered by bombastic brass and percussion sections. Easily the catchiest cut on the record this song is immediately gorgeous and achingly sentimental:
"Oh I have now had three wives, you're my only ghost - "
"The organs I have lost control of, the roll of film I can't dispose of - "
"How your memory survives, like communion hosts..."
These melancholic lyrics contrast brilliantly with the upbeat folk rock instrumentation - a consistent pattern throughout Sitcom Afterlife, even if the delivery is clumsy at times. But in the end, it is its poetry and vivid storytelling that make this record as good as it is. For all of its tragedy and ruin Sitcom Afterlife is possibly the most uplifting work of art you could classify as Rust Belt Gothic - because at the end of the day the work's youthful idealism comes out on top of the bitter cynicism it bears towards its subject matter. No longer donning rose colored glasses, our narrator learns to hang on to the sweet memories of his midwestern past as he marches forward into an uncertain future.
