You know, writing for Pitchfork is a lot like lighting a match on a fungus-laden toenail, in that I can't find a good simile for either activity. I try to explain to my fans the angst that comes with trying to find different ways of saying "catchy" and "post-rock." Then I realize I don't have any fans other than my friend, Joe, the frilly plastic pony on my desk. I'll attempt to construe this by working out an itinerary of my review of International Airport's debut album, Nothing We Can Control. This one's for you, Joe.

12:00am
I open the package of CDs from Pitchfork HQ and find International Airport's Nothing We Can Control staring me in the face. Looking through the liner notes, I see a collage of nonsensical self-help procedures, a line drawing of a studio, a two-page crayon scribbling of a bald eagle, and a pastel massacre of an album cover with half the band's name written in Greek. I'm guessing this is some Radiohead rip-off and expect this review to practically write itself.

12:05am
I place the CD in my trusty "ghetto blaster" and head down to the 'hood in an attempt to impress the homies with my choice of music. Or, I plop down on my bed with headphones on. Your choice.

12:06am
International Airport snores into a groove suggesting a laconic Tortoise outtake. The wheezing reed organ, melodica, plucked acoustic guitar, and Casio rhythm track of "Western" assure me that this isn't exactly a Scottish Radiohead clone, but also have me consider reading a few chapters of my latest sci-fi indulgence, Queen of Angels, by Greg Bear.

12:10am
Annabel "Aggie" Wright's voice lazily enters the next track, "Moving Water," buried deep under several layers of instruments. The lyrics are indiscernible. Who mixed this thing? A look at the liners reveals that John McEntire is responsible. Dammit, John! You know better than to bury vocals in boring accompaniment! Maybe the band wanted it that way for a reason.

12:20am
I fall unconscious to the Rhodes shuffle of "A Vale of Twisted Sendal." This is music even stoners would rebuke, exclaiming, "Dude, this sucks! Put on some Floyd or next time you're getting oregano!" This is music of static disinterest, tunes during which I had no qualms about taking a nap. There's something to be said about simplicity and a laid-back attitude, but it's not being said here.

12:35am
I awake to the sounds of "Gold Strike," the closest this album comes to accessible pop music. It's not particularly original or exciting in any way, but at least it woke me up, if for no other reason than the fact that it's louder than the rest of the record.

12:38am
"Icerink," an instrumental suggesting Jimmy Eat World sans vocals or melody structure, catches my attention, only to drop it on the kitchen floor. And with music, there is no five-second rule.

12:40am
Following a meandering instrumental called "Melodica 2," the cocktail murk of "Cyclionic Lanes" gets me all jazzed up to hear Annabel Wright singing, this time mixed at a decent level, with a delicately selective diction and a tone that reminds me of Annie, the flautist I've played with a couple of times. I check the liner notes again. It's not her, of course.

Good. I'm not saying this is the worst record I've ever heard, or anything even remotely that extreme-- International Airport don't deserve a hard-earned reaction any more than they deserve hard-earned cash. It's just that I'd have a difficult time finding anything encouragingly positive to say to a friend who made an appearance on this album's worth of doze-rock.

-Craig Griffith