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