On the first Friday of every new year, a fleet of dump trucks winds through the narrow, sloped streets of the seaside New England town where I live and picks up the dry Christmas trees that people have dragged to their curbs the night before. Nearly every resident participates in the ritual, likely out of both convenience and duty: to add ammunition to the upcoming bonfire. This year, I found myself driving around the town much as the trucks had. Usually, one can see a long trail of needles running the length of people's long driveways, but this year a significant snowstorm had hovered over the area for more than a day. So, instead, there were deep, grooved channels in the feathery snow, as one might expect to see in the Minnesota woods in the heart of hunting season.

The snow was still falling when I passed the enflamed mountain of Christmas trees on the harborside beach, which the town firemen had ignited without any apparent difficulty. Given the slippery road conditions, I drove by the fire as if in slow-motion. I was surprised to see so few spectators. An event that usually looks like a joyous burning of minor holiday sins instead seemed like a silent vigil to the year 2000. And, indeed, the true death of the millennium coupled with an enormous fire can render one hopelessly reflective.

In a rare moment of literary convenience, I happened to be listening to The Fire Show in my car. The band's members-- M. Resplendent, Olias Nil, E.S. Roth and Crian Lubinsky-- refer to their songs as jigsaw puzzles, but their music puzzles more like fire: you can't solve it, only experience it. Like fire, the Fire Show are composed of a consistent molecular structure that continually changes shape. Up close, one can't help but wonder at their irreverent fluctuation and familiar yet unpredictable delivery of sound: each track is five, ten, fifteen songs crashing together; from afar, they don't move at all: the album feels like one long fluid song.

The eight-minute album opener, "F. Pilate," begins as you now might expect: with feedback like crackling fire. Labored drums and a casual guitar triumph over the subdued chaos when M. Resplendent sings, "I'll find my way inside your heart/ My city smog in your country lungs," his reverberated voice not unlike Robert Plant's on "In the Evening." Then, the eerie song begins a journey in which it loses to the fuzz, clarifies, is enhanced by sternly plucked strings, meets passing noises of indefinite origin, is interrupted by Dylan Thomas, and ends on a poignant note: piano, acoustic guitar, and Resplendent, a vocal chameleon, now soaring above it all.

"Please Kill the Barium Swallows" has the Fire Show mixing strings similar to those of Godspeed You Black Emperor, with alternately muffled and crisp vocals and guitar pickings straight out the Northwest. As M. Resplendent takes on the appearance of Home's Andrew Deutsch-- one of the Fire Show's nearest kin-- one feels ready for a more straightforward rock song. But then it breaks. Pieces are strewn everywhere, and the Fire Show seems in no rush to put them back together. But the song repairs itself as quickly as it crumbled, and the rush of hearing it is like watching a car crash in reverse.

Not until the fourth track, "The Antipathetic," is producer Brian Deck's impact obvious. The distant, hollowed vocals, atmospheric guitar and randomly-trebled drums are all Deck trademarks. That the Fire Show worked with him is no surprise at all, for they also resemble the later, more meandering and experimental work of Red Red Meat. Which is why a comment about Radiohead on their website surprised me: "I feel betrayed... Perhaps Radiohead have made a completely lovely record, but, in the process, they've sacrificed we-ism for me-ism.... Long live the Rock and Roll Band!" The Fire Show employ guitars, sure, but they're not a verse-chorus-verse, three-minute rock band. And this record would certainly be considered "challenging" by most mainstream rock fans. "4 Times Through the Angel," for instance, relies on a mechanized beat and synth threads. There are also two guitarless ambient numbers.

The reason my town's tree-burning wasn't well attended is obvious: the storm. The few who braved the weather saw the relentless snow melt as it came within ten feet of the burning trees, leaving a clear halo around the flames. The few who listen to this album will have a similar experience. It may make you uncomfortable at times, reflective at others, and just as often, it will energize you. But, as reliably as fire itself, this music is sure to transfix you. Just don't try and solve it: you'll end up in the hospital with third-degree burns.

-Ryan Kearney