Vue
Find Your Home
[Sub Pop; 2001]
Rating: 6.4
I hear rootsy R&B; is in this year, along with equestrian-style boots. I just
bought some nice zip-up knee-lengths myself, and now spend my days on the streets
comparing them to those of other girls. Did I get the right pair, with buckles
in just the right place? Will they become spring fashion castaways? Could all
that money have gone to more superfluous records with which I could compare this
album? Probably not, 'cause I got 'em all: the Stooges, the Modern Lovers, the
Velvet Underground (in their first wave), and all those second-generation
rip-offs I wholeheartedly love, against my better judgment.
Vue appeared in the late 90s amidst the quote-unquote glam revival which you may
recall as a media conspiracy centered around Ewan MacGregor's final stab at
babeness, Velvet Goldmine. At that time, the shoes were platforms
(mid-calf and often more round at the tip, unless chased with mod, in which
case, we went for the Beetle-boots). Vue's riding rigs were a bit more glittery
back then-- their 1999 debut EP for Gold Standard Laboratories, The Death of a
Girl, and their self-titled Sub Pop releases frequently garnered comparison
to Pulp or Jonathan Fire*Eater. Lots of people ate it up, but of course, the
contrarian types at Pitchfork smelled a sequin-studded rat and slid both
efforts into the pan.
Well, now's now and everybody like the Strokes, the White Stripes, et al. Detroit
will save America with its big, bad rhythms and no one cares how contrived the
lot is. Enter the new Vue album, a slam-damned, roots rockin', acoustic growlin'
Jaggermonica explosion of the righteous past. But let's be honest here: all those
words I just reeled off mean absolutely nothing. That's the point. This is rock!
From the border-skipping ruse of "Hitchhiking" to "Do You Think of Him Still?,"
there's that heavy-handed sexuality, and that grotesque pout so associated with
collagen-laden chic types and yesterday's real deal (ahh, glam again). These
moments are certainly shameless, but nothing compared to "People on the Stairs,"
which shivers from its naked exposure as a cosmetically lifted "Sister Ray."
Still, they're pretty good at it. Frontman Rex John Shelverton, a guy who must
sleep in a proper little tie, appropriates Jagger in much the way Christian
Slater copped Nicholson's trademarks. It's locked in. Distortion prevails,
mixing keys and blues guitars in that perfect blend of mud to snazz. It's so
real I want to go up to it in a lobby and touch its leaves just to be sure, or
scratch it along a window like a shady fiancée. But I know, as far as anything
goes, that the appearance of "authenticity" is a construct (any time spent
reading about Lou Reed's supposedly beat life will tell you that) and perhaps
all this tittering about sonic opportunism is just so much revisionist
righteousness. What? I mean to say, this album rocks shamelessly in this
autumn's boots and cares not. That's just what they do. I guess this makes me
a contrarian's contrarian, or perhaps just another fashion victim.
-Daphne Carr, October 12th, 2001