The Cold War Kids auspicious debut, Robbers and Cowards, opens with a swooping rattle of percussion and piano that vividly recalls Wolf Parade's "You Are a Runner and I Am My Father's Son" from 2005's Apologies to the Queen Mary. Like that indie prize, Robbers and Cowards is an astoundingly consistent offering, doused with pop thrills that delight despite being half-cloaked in taut moonlight grooves.
This hipster quartet from suburban Los Angeles openly channels its muses of yore — moody Velvet Underground and the plaintive gait of Bob Dylan's restrained plucks — but its terrifically soulful heart pounds with the blood of indie-rock greatness. The Cold War Kids merge post-punk's tinted, echoey atmosphere with the jangling minimalism of such vaunted troopers as Spoon and the Walkmen to craft a sound robust with tension but still soothing at its core.
A shimmering submarine bass line introduces the excellent follow-up "Hang Me Out to Dry." Its brisk, full-bodied rhythm survives off of relatively spare arrangements until broken piano crashes and jabbing guitar pelts awaken the contour's nuances. Over this, lead man Nathan Willett delivers his metaphor-heavy musings ("I'm pearly like the whites of your eyes/ All mixed up in the wash/ Hot water bleeding our colors") with impassioned bewilderment.
To proceed with the comparison, Willett's vocal motif does resemble the Walkmen's Hamilton Leithauser, only buoyed by a throatier wail. It's fraught with trembles and hearty croons that play out nicely in the ambiguous subtext of Robbers and Cowards. Insouciant and forceful at turns, Willett appears resigned to the quirky whims of chance but hesitates to strike fatalist notes. The fractured narratives spread out among these 12 numbers dwell on the downtrodden, seedy and tragically misguided slices of our varied populace. But, perhaps guided by their predominantly evangelical upbringing (which should have stressed forgiveness and redemption), the Cold War Kids don't level smug, cold-hearted judgment onto their forlorn subjects. Rather, the lyrics adopt an incisive, observational approach that tows the line between sympathy and thoughtful curiosity.
"Hospital Beds" presents the remarkable culmination of such tendencies, capably set to the haunting friction of stripped rhythms and yearning vocals. It's a brief snapshot of two hospital patients desperate for glimmers of vitality in their darkening twilight. "I got one friend laying across from me/ I did not choose him, he did not choose me/ We've got no chance of recovery/ Sharing hospital joy and misery." Its cloudy pianos and percussive gallop foster a progressive flow that rightly battles against the onset of drab depression.
In "Passing the Hat," Willett comically takes on the role of a church-offering thief ("I reach for the hat and take all the cash and slide it into my ragged coat sleeve") with little compunction and seems to relish the persona of an anonymous, petty crook on the lam. Similarly, "Saint John," set to sputtering percussive blips, addresses the impending fate of a righteously vengeful murderer. But its saloon pianos and sailor's shanty chorus imbues it with an only half-serious tone. Much of the inscrutable sentiment of Robbers and Cowards emanates from this delicate balance.
Certain slices of this collection, however, more proudly brandish their pop sensibilities. "Hair Down" utilizes tambourine shakes, stuttering bass poses and sugary riffs to coat Willet's nostalgic thoughts in radiance — "We were still just babies/ Dreaming of the sixties." Also, the superbly titled "Red Wine, Success!" sets up a contrast of sunny hooks and rumbling drum kicks with an uncertain view of the narrative's protagonist who "lives his life a painful and lovely day in the history of a great pregnancy."
The closer, "Rubidoux," appears quite lengthy in its 11:02 duration but in fact is separated into two individual numbers by a three-minute spell of silence. The opening segment features jaunty pop and a furtive rap by Willett that further showcases his vocal dynamism. The coda, however, decelerates into a strumming hymn that loudly invokes the divine ("Lord, have mercy on me") and castigates, among other targets, psychoanalysis and The New York Times. Its southern inflection conjures up a homey shot of the Lord's fire and ends Robbers and Cowards appropriately, with a plea for redemption.
In a year burdened by low-grade indie fare, Robbers and Cowards is not to be missed. It's a front-to-back success from a debut band that already seems well-honed in its trademark sound and style. Here's to more rich offerings from the Cold War Kids.
Grade: 4 out of 5.
