I know it, and you know it. Quirky, after many years of misuse and abuse, has become a dirty word, and an even dirtier songwriting approach. And that's simply because, to be quirky today is to try to be quirky-- to desperately seek to be off-kilter and innovative, and often, to toe some quasi-philosophical aesthetic line, with the ultimate goal of making a lasting impression on the listener's mind. Unfortunately, quirk usually comes gloved so thick in irony and contrivance as to render its core components devoid of sincerity.

Which is why I will abstain from using the word again in this review. 20 Minute Loop is one of the more refreshing musical experiences I've had in months and months. Decline of Day practically begs for stupid music review fantasy hybrid-type descriptions. So here goes: say you've got XTC. Now subtract the TC, and pair the remainder of John Doe and Exene Cervenka with J. Robbins in a six-by-six cell haunted by Frank Black's muse, with only a Radiohead CD, a Flannery O'Connor novel, and occasional visits from the members of Seely to break the psychosis.

This San Francisco quintet sounds like they should be from Georgia, not from the land of tech-sector meltdowns and hippie nostalgia shops. But then again, nothing much makes sense with 20 Minute Loop. And we don't have to travel far to prove the point. "Jubilation," the sinister carnival-pop opener, couples stomach-achy, saccharine sing-songiness with stomach-turning lyrical surrealism. It pays to quote at length: "Bracketed diamonds, billowing smoke/ A terrible heft, behind that pitchfork/ A torn up napkin, uneaten meat/ A bloody steak knife, bunions cut off the feet/ A crippled Arab, face in the street/ Searching the asphalt for her missing teeth." Yuck to the lyrics, but yum to the unbelievable melody and the slick harmonizing of Kelly Atkins and Greg Giles.

"Moses" follows, parting the Red Sea of wack, uninspired indie-pop songwriting with beautiful melodic interplay that recalls the more playful moments of Burning Airlines, only enriched with a feminine presence that was always so sorely wanting in that band's macho compositions. "All Manner" brings a solid pop hammer down on whatever reservations or resistance you might still be harboring. My favorite track, it uses mind-blowingly good harmonies and just plain pretty music to tell the creepy story of an unlucky couple's drive through the country. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, and the ill-fated lovers find their car interred in a snowdrift. As their minds and heart-rates slow to a still, they contemplate their icy preservation and lament the eventuality of their bodies being discovered "later in the Spring thaw." Their dying wish: "Let us stay like this forever, once and for all." Don't roll your eyes, motherfucker.

"Daughter's Down" showcases Greg Giles' obvious affinity and talent for weird, chromatic vocal lines. Again, a melody that's damned near impossible to dislodge from your consciousness is wrapped around grotesque subject matter: this time, an incestuous father-daughter relationship. "Pilot Light" constitutes just another bomb-blast in the relentless melodic attack. The musical break in the oddly timed chorus features a mind-bending keyboard melody, and the second "chorus" (which in no way resembles the first) has Kelly Atkins sounding like the B-52's Kate Pierson.

When, you ask, does it stop? I mean, they have to foul things up eventually, right? Well, no, not quite yet. The album's title track, in a just universe, would be a pop-radio staple, and would buy these deserving characters financial security and mass adoration. But as W is wont to say, the world is full of iniquity, evil-doers and legions of poor dupes with shit taste. Nevertheless, this track is pure gold. The lyrics are all Kelly Atkins, and are arguably, in their straightforwardly way, the album's best: "I can lie here for hours while you breathe/ Indulging my doubts/ All the dreams that escape you come to me/ And burn themselves out/ I am hanging from threads that/ To the hands of the Fates/ They have dressed me in a pale jealousy/ And left me to wait/ And in the morning we won't remember/ Why we're finessing a way of keeping each other down/ We'll stay up all night/ It's force of habit/ And that's not how it ought to be."

"Mechanical Angels" is the album's last slice of perfection before sliding into merely "good" territory. It begins with lullaby-- soft-picked, guitar arpeggios that break into a chorus of inexplicable do-do-do's that out anything Frank Black has done in the past decade. The album's remaining five tracks range from memorable (the dreamy, but dirge-like "Elephant") to just okay-but-not-so-memorable (the Dumbek-adorned "Mompha Termina"). Still, even if you were to cut out the final five, the first magically good seven tracks are worth as much as the last ten releases you thought were good combined. It's been a while since I thought I could only do an album a disservice by trying to describe it. What else can I say?

-Camilo Arturo Leslie, November 30th, 2001