Pacts were signed with wax seals pressed shut with the three-pronged logo of Pitchfork. On parched documents King Ryan proclaimed that no emo should ever be reviewed again in the realm of Pitchforkmedia.com. These decrees flew post-haste across the land. Criers and merchants in all the regions from Rockermann and Chanko to Cooper and Crescenzo spread the word of the just lord. "A ban on emo," questioned the people in their schoolyards and cubicles, "wherefore?" Their doubt was quickly quelled by sight of the landfills, sprinkled with the silver sequins of forgotten discs. The mostly white labels-- sparsely marked with lowercase fonts, meaningless lines, and sharp squares proclaimed the names of bands starting with "The" and ending in seasons, towns, automobiles or foliage-- reminded the people why emo should thus be defeated.

Yet in the land of Crescenzo, smugglers cloaked a heavy trade of emo. The Duke of Crescenzo, with wit of pen, defined "emo" in widening ambiguity and enigmatic terms. So, his subjects did continue to hear the king's contraband. But for what? "Hope," the Duke would mutter. Through habit and gnawing nostalgia, the Duke yearned for sound of his youth, when emo predated its definition-- when it was not chained by its codes and expectations like a wallet to a beltloop. Pirates presented the Duke continually with new emo records. The dustbins filled with continually disappointing product from a far wooded land-- the Tree Forest, loaded with jade and elm. The deteriorating quality, whether it resulted from the Duke's callusing ears or not, salted the man.

One day, a disc was slipped under the Duke's chamber doors. "Christ on a popsicle stick," the Duke spat. Its cover contained no capitals, a Polaroid of sky, and bore the name "Camden." The disc's title and label flashed lamentable puns. The dressings promised the predictable signature of emo. Out of duty to his land, the Duke inserted the disc into his royal stereo. The spectral emissions at least wrinkled kindling in the Duke's soul, if not igniting a conflagration. For the surprise provided much of the record's liquor over obvious shortcomings. Even some handicaps embedded distinct charm to the album, simply for bleeding uniquely. The Duke, as was his profession, rushed to his quill to exaggerate his thawed heart in flowery prose.

He scribbled:

"Whooping percussion opens Reel Time Canvas like muffled helicopter blades. Above that soars the vocalist on relentless falsetto. Producer Chris Walla of Death Cab for Cutie, with his cherished delay effect, stuffs the drums in a capped Tupperware cup and tucks them under velum sheets of guitar and those sopranic bellows. The thin, digital production at once drains immediacy and pumps fresh air into the proceedings. Under Walla's thumb, the rhythms approach electronic beats while maintaining humanity. The translucent guitars, while punchless, approach a sliver of My Bloody Valentine's "Shields Wall" on "You Seem Capable." Though it sounds a mere flake wafer of MBV's shoegazer's Bible, the track barbs itself with subcutaneous attractions. Elsewhere, the guitars speed through the delicate pickings customary to music from the Midwest.

"Camden manage to do for emo what Shudder to Think did for D.C. hardcore, although obviously on a generally smaller scale. A relentlessly operatic singer pulls the band into the clouds for better or worse. The sanguine imagery and chopped urban poetry mimic Shudder to Think similarly. 'That's clever/ Now cradle me in arms/ Like border guard/ And stop me! Stop me!," belts the singer in lines seemingly lifted from Get Your Goat or Pony Express Record. These lines frustrate in print, but begin to make sense as they tether to the current of the vocals.

"The second half continues to swirl in similar, lesser whirlpools. Either poor sequencing or the ears' endurance for falsetto causes a slight latter slope. Yet overall, Camden grant further excuse from our disobeying King Ryan's ordinance. Even though genres may die, their skeletons can dance with skilled puppeteers. For over anything else, Camden excel at control, almost to a fault. Hearing a well-trained singer shout over music that deserved such talent for so long is worth the admission."

The Duke posted his review in the land of Crescenzo. His people remarked and nodded. King Ryan punished the Duke by sending him more emo, as no other Pitchfork Duke would touch it. The Duke of Crescenzo's calluses grew again.

-Brent DiCrescenzo