Tennis - Cape Dory (Fat Possum)
On paper, this should be something I completely hate. Wait, actually that's not fair of me to say. I wouldn't be able to completely hate it because I'd never have given it a fair shot in the first place, having immediately written it off as pretentious hipster garbage. (Sidenote: Yes, I do hear you complaining that I often listen to stuff that could be dismissed as "pretentious hipster garbage" and, fair play, that I sometimes do. But even I have my limits.) See, the ultra "cute" (and, by cute, I mean obnoxiously sickening) back story behind Tennis is that this record was inspired by the year that founding couple, Patrick Riley and Alaina Moore, spent on a sailboat sailing up and down the East Coast and falling in love. Which, you know, isn't in and of itself such a terrible story, but the way it gets flogged in every interview and built up as the band's myth makes it a little more than off-putting. Combine that with a band and album name that conjures up only the whitest of whitebread privilege, a tendency to wear shorts and boat shoes on stage, the most embarrassing hipster retro-kitsch cover art in years, and you're left with a band that seems custom designed for blog buzz that won't outlast a week's news cycle. So, yeah, all indications were that this was going to be a band to hate or, at the very least, wisely ignore.
Fortunately life had other plans for me and I happened to come across "Marathon" while listening to an internet streaming radio station (can't for the life of me remember which one, but it was likely KEXP out of Seattle). The sticky-sweet melody, Moore's cooing vocals, and the way the chorus crashed the shore on a wave of drums and jangly guitar all had me from the get-go. It was an earworm of the most immediate variety and I couldn't resist its charms. And, as luck would have it, that song was a fair indication of what the rest of the record held. Cape Dory is thirty minutes of summery pop built around Moore's lovely voice, Riley's twisting guitar lines, and shuffling drums. Its a rather simple formula, but one that evokes a timeless feel, combining the best of 1950s pop, surf music, and beach-slacker indie. There are moments when I'm reminded of recent lo-fi garage pop by practitioners like the Vivian Girls, but with a much brighter, candy-coated veneer. Each song is about sailing, love, or a combination of the two; with lyrics that straddle the fine line between cute and cloying ("we'll make a family in the quite country / you and me, in simplicity"). If the melodies weren't as striking and the tunes as well crafted as they are, the overwhelming cheerfulness would wear thin by track three. Luckily Tennis keeps things tight and compact, never allowing the album to outstay its welcome. This isn't for everybody, hell, even people with a high tolerance for mushy, bouncy pop will find it hard to stomach in large doses, but at the right time and in the right mood Tennis really hits the sweet spot. So, let this be a lesson in reminding you that the inane back-stories interviewers love to latch onto don't mean anything, only the music does.
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