In the grand tradition of Ween's The Pod, the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion's Now I Got Worry, and His Name Is Alive's Ft. Lake comes an album that sounds absolutely nothing like any of them. Let me explain. I enjoy these three albums immensely, and although they don't sound much like each other, there's one quality they share that attracts me to them: the ability to surprise. Each takes a relatively simple musical formula-- something that would ordinarily seem pretty standard-- and adds bizarre and unexpected elements to it. I revel in the subtleties and production quirks that turn an average arena rock track into lo-fi helium-induced sludge, or a folk song into 80's Casio-pop in the final 30-second stretch. Enter Fuck.

Fuck's fifth LP, Cupid's Cactus, explores songwriting territory not dissimilar to that found on their previous efforts. Until now, 1997's Pardon My French stood as their defining moment; it's not a very interesting record, but its simple indie rock melodies, mellow almost to the point of sedation, generally proved effective. 1998's Conduct toyed with a bit of multiple personality disorder-- it switched between alt-country ballads and a rawer, slightly more aggressive indie sound, but the balance didn't fully pay off. On Cupid's Cactus, Fuck go back to more homogeneous riffs and melodies similar to those on Pardon My French, but the record embodies an overall texture that's endlessly fascinating.

This is the quality I discussed. Many of the songs on Cupid's Cactus contain at least one element of surprise-- something to catch the casual listener off-guard even after more than one listen. The band knows not to take every song by the throat with potentially distracting unpredictability, but there's enough equilibrium between their regularly dreamy slow pace and the idiosyncrasies that make it unique.

"Glass Charms" opens the album in typical Fuck fashion, with frontman Timmy Prudhomme's melancholy Southern-esque drawl ("And her glass never said to me/ 'I'll drink to that'") over a slow-burn, shuffling groove. But the initial stupefaction begins with "High" on track two; synthesized piano, a stand-up bass and lo-fi electronic drums play a minimalist minute-long tune that's more eerie than jazzy, with an unstable croon seeping from the background. A similar instrumental interlude follows later, entitled "How Do You Do, Mr. Do," this time experimenting with high-pitched sine-wave tones. This, obviously, is not the same old Fuck.

More prevalent than outwardly bizarre experiments, however, are the unconventional arrangements given to otherwise conventional tunes. "Someday Aisle" would be similar to Fuck's other lazy melodies if it weren't for the 7/4 beat, the club sounds that run throughout, and instrumentation stripped to basic bass/drums/vocals-- not to mention the moment in the dead center of the song when every instrument drops out and an acoustic guitar plays four forced chords that have nothing to do with the rest of the track. It actually works perfectly. The languid "Panties Off" contains a similar intermission, but instead of inserting another instrument, it lives in ambient space and silence for nearly a full minute before allowing itself to quietly build again.

Yet more joyous oddities are in store. "It's Unbelievable" is a full-song exercise in horse-tranquilizer barbershop-quartet pop, half a cappella with hilariously lackluster harmonies and finger snaps. And "Awright" opens with a cut-and-pasted muted guitar riff and out of tune la-la's just before kicking off some Yo La Tengo-style fuzz-pop with an elephant noise. The song then goes on to feature a babbling, crying baby as strangely appropriate accompaniment. So, when the last echoing organ tones of "Cobra Lullaby" fade away, I'm not quite sure what to make of such an album that's simultaneously so familiar and so strange. But after repeated listens, Cupid's Cactus is unquestionably Fuck's best effort yet, one of the better records to see release this year, and another stylistic achievement that will undoubtedly continue to sound fresh long after the year becomes history.

-Spencer Owen