Iran
Iran
[tUMULt; 2000]
Rating: 9.6
Iran has the dubious distinction of an unsavory name in less than felicitous
times. No doubt, when the band adopted its moniker, Iran-- the fundamentalist
Shiite Muslim nation who brought you the 1979 fall of the Shah, the taking of
52 American hostages and the 1989 fatwa against Salman Rushdie-- was well on its
way to taking its place next to King George and Khruschchev in the dustbin of
America's bogeymen. These days, however, with the U.S. standing drinks in the
rogues' gallery of the new world order, the name is no longer quite so remote,
nor quite so innocuous.
But none of this even amounts to a coincidence, as Iran released their debut
long before the recent national events; truth be told, Iran's album just
celebrated its first birthday. Before this gets chalked up to Pitchfork's
much-maligned tardiness, however, let me submit, in our defense, the fact that
the headbangers at Tumult Records would sooner push Pitchfork into the
girl's bathroom than send us the choice fruits of their gloom-and-doom-laden
catalog. Nevertheless, we would brook no interference in getting our mitts on
this noise-pop masterpiece, come hell or high water. Besides, what's twelve
months in the procurement of unabashed excellence?
Despite the hostile connotations of Iran's name, this San Francisco five-piece
is as American as snap, crackle and pop-- which presents as accurate a
description of their sound as any. The militantly lo-fi Iran seem more
temperamentally aligned with the electronic progenitors of the glitch revolution
than with the no wave-isms of their likely influences (DNA and early Sonic Youth).
The crackling buzz and scuzz in which Iran's sludge-pop is hopelessly encrusted
seems bent on repeating the question that stands at the heart of all glitch:
what's the musical difference between function and malfunction?
The answer, as always, is: none. The hissing amp and wheezing microphone can
perform the same aural magic as their pristine and sound-checked counterparts.
Let Granddaddy lament the broken appliances; Iran has picked them up and made
something damaged but nonetheless wonderful. The tribal bongos, chiming bells
and serpentine guitars of "Yellow Lemon Tigers" scream like a manifesto for
the entire album: a skittering squall in the place of a formal introduction.
But "Tigers" slips easily into the jagged jangle of "Pick Up/Stillborn," a dirty
pop gem of fierce drums and thick, distorted guitars. "Pick Up/Stillborn"
approaches Slanted and Enchanted-era Pavement in its deadpan vocals and
accidental but undeniable hooks, chugging sloppily along while the alien synths
and rattling guitars bend their pitches maliciously in and out of tune. You're
still whistling its fragile melody long after the tune has dissolved into the
hearing-test tone poem introduction to "Dream Summer," a densely layered blast
of tape-looped noise, beneath which lies the surreptitious strum and sweet folk
reflection that constitutes the album's secret joy.
Beneath the din, Iran is an often catchy and always well-crafted folk-rock record,
disguised by amplification as "serious music." Nothing supports this claim as
convincingly as the meditative "The Music Plays Itself," where limpid guitars
reverberate mournfully over railroad noise and faded electronic scratch. The
song sounds about as a delicate as a funeral in the middle of Penn Station:
solace ever in danger of fatal distraction, and ultimately undone. The gorgeous
wooden acoustics of "San Diego" seem to find a small measure of harmony between
voice, guitar and the insect noise that almost sings along in the background.
The band's name never sounds so ill-suited as here; there's something so
breathtakingly American about these noble attempts at beauty amidst clamor,
without once divorcing the former from the latter.
As Clear Channel Communications is feverishly banning from the playlists of their
1,170 radio stations every band and song that may bear some incidental reference
to the tragedies of September 11th, it takes no leap of the imagination to
suspect that Iran would never make it to the airwaves. Not that Iran's
malfunctioning masterpiece stood much of a chance on making it to mainstream
radio in the first place. But political incorrectness aside, Iran has recorded
an absolutely amazing American rock record for the twenty-first century:
dissonant and catchy, meticulous and accidental, pretentious and true. You may
have to dig around some to find it, but it is well worth uncovering. And like
the man said: may you live in interesting times.
-Brent S. Sirota, September 26th, 2001