Arcade Fire’s The Suburbs may seem like a record filled with sorrow, but it is a record filled with hate–hatred of the very thought of growing up. Spitting out every leftist cliché about the evils of suburbia, frontman Win Butler tries to make a point about the source of human suffering and misses completely. He wails and moans for lost innocence, for a time when everything was simpler, but the truth is that the world was never simple, and what he’s yearning for is an excuse to remain simple-minded. And, mind you, this is not a wistful look back at a younger, foolish self but bitter whining that the world doesn’t bend to the wishes of young fools.
Butler and his wife, Rѐgine Chassagne, are gifted songwriters, as evidenced by their first two albums, Funeral and Neon Bible. Despite being very clear about their progressivism (campaigning for Obama, anti-war soundbite lyrics, and a dismissal of Christianity as deep as Saved!) they have always been able to make gripping albeit melodramatic earworms. The lameness of The Suburbs, however, is no surprise. Between reports of rampant pompousness and the cult-like devotion of their fans, it was inevitable that the band would crank out something so tepid and uninspired while hyping it as a momentous concept album.
The underlying problem is that the ‘Fire are not content with being a good band but must make sure everyone considers them an Important band. Every word is calculated to sound profound rather than be true, and the sound is similarly forced. Most of the songs on the album build to a heavy, angsty climax complete with bassy synthesizers and an echoey string orchestra. To say it’s monotonous is an understatement; the last band that strained this hard to sound “epic” was Creed. Between this and the length at 16 songs (at least five could have remained b-sides), it’s clear this is an album that Butler’s wanted to make all his life–the final, most exhaustive treatise on Western middle-class malaise ever. Ever.
The opening track, which shares the album’s title, begins with a honkey-tonk piano and swing beat that sets the stage for a nostalgic jaunt through an unnamed protagonist’s memories. It works fine, especially during the chorus, but Butler is so enamored of the song’s four chords, he repeats them for a full five-and-a-half minutes when three or four could have done. Then he reprises the song twice. Meta-statement on the dull, repetitive nature of suburban life? For his sake, I hope not.
The song’s strings cross into the next cut, “Ready to Start,” which opens with the lyrics, “Businessmen drink my blood, like the kids in art school said they would,” and devolves from there (he fails to mention his art school friends drink his blood through NEA grants and unemployment checks, and he has no choice but to pay for that, unlike with businessmen). The song’s chord progression seems drawn from a hat, and the melody is jarringly convoluted in an attempt to fit. This problem plagues much of the album. Instead of letting his music progress naturally and elegantly, Butler is constantly forcing gimmicky twists and turns on his bandmates and us, the listeners.
The middle of the record stumbles through filler songs of yo-yo quality: after the enjoyable if unintelligible “Empty Rooms” and “Half Light I” come the acrid “City With No Children” and “Half Light II (No Celebration),” which try to sound like gospel-rock and folksy blues but end up imitating Bruce Springsteen at his cheesiest. This seemingly infinite dull stretch is finally broken up by “We Used to Wait,” a song which is simultaneously self-loathing and condescending.
“We Used to Wait” highlights the album’s main problem; for whatever moments of good music exist, the lyrics drip with arrogance. The song laments cheapened communication and America’s culture of immediacy; the narrator acts as though Society is pointing a gun to his head and forcing him not to write letters anymore. “Rococo” trashes the artsy indie kids who keep Arcade Fire in business, and the two-part “Sprawl” sneers at people who work hard managing stores and restaurants, griping about how their attempts to eke out a living destroy “the places we used to play.”
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As I scan The Suburbs‘ glowing reviews around the Internet, I’m amazed how critics have completely ignored how overdramatic and clumsy Butler’s songwriting has become. It’s so overbearing in spots, one can’t help but laugh out loud. Just try to make it through “Suburban War’s” Wagnerian bridge (pounding drums, full orchestra & swelling guitar), whose only line is “All my old friends, they don’t know me now,” without cracking up. Listen to the poor-me violin trills on “Sprawl I (Flatland)” accompanying such poetic lyrics as “[Seeing urban sprawl] was the loneliest day of my life, You’re talking at me but I’m still far away.” Once the hype from the album fades, listeners will only find themselves embarrassed by this amateurish self-indulgence.
One bright spot does exist; “Sprawl II (Mountains Beyond Mountains)” is a radical departure from the rest of the album’s dreary style. The New Wave, synth-centric pop anthem sung by Chassagne is everything The Suburbs is not: dynamic, enchanting, and naturally flowing. It may have the snottiest progressive lyrics on the album (“They heard me singing and they told me to stop, ‘Quit these pretentious things and just punch the clock'”), but after 14 tracks of plodding rhythms and 8th-grader guitar riffs, I’ll jump at the chance to embrace any trace of actual creativity I can find.
The Suburbs is a perfect example of wasted potential. Instead of reacting to newfound fame with humility and a desire to move into new creative territory, Arcade Fire have let their signature sound become stale and have doubled down on their poseur profundity (up next: a film collaboration with Spike Jonze!). When a band starts believing its own hype and becomes gratingly political, that can absolutely choke the life out of its music. With this album, the Arcade Fire has crossed that line, and, pushed on by rabid fans and gushing critics, I doubt they’ll even consider backtracking.
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