The Stout Republican

I’ve been known to haunt a bar or two, but sometimes I think I’m in the wrong area, or on the wrong continent when it comes to enjoying the brewed libations. It’s a well-known fact that I am a beer connoisseur (read snob). I like microbrews, and I like I hold the various glasses under my nose to inhale the deep smells of the various domestic and imports, much like a wine lover would as they seek for subtle differences between vineyards.

The downside of the beer market, is the meat market that comes along with it. The “bro” crowd in Huntington Beach that shows up to the bars in the shorts that are a little too long, the socks that are a little too black, and the shirts that are a little too Hurley so that they can ogle the ladies and exchange high fives while consuming as much of the cheapest beer they can buy, as fast as they can drink it. This is soon followed by the white boy gyrations that sometimes pass for dancing in this area (not that I can dance, but at least I know better), and the “check out my car” statements that are the natural aphrodisiac for the ladies of Orange County, California. This experience is all topped of by the “jukebox tunes” that come out of the over priced sound system that has no other purpose than to drown out all intelligent conversation, coupled with the various music and surfing videos that accompany said tunes on the many High Definition Widescreen Plasma monstrosities throughout the bar. Such classics as “Aww Skeet Skeet” by Lil Jon, and “Sexyback” by the untouchable talent Justin Timberlake…I was born in the wrong era.

I want the good old-fashioned pub music, the kind you hear in the British or Irish Pub at 1 pm on some random Sunday while the various Beach bars named after assorted fish are playing “the big game”. I want to hear stories from an old man with a fedora about his 2 years at sea, and lost love, and revenge, and exaggerated stories about places I’ll never go…that’s what beer and pub mean to me.

The Decemberists are what I miss in my Sunday afternoon drinking. Good stories accompanied with good music.

Opening with the first track, Colin Meloy’s unique vocals mesh well with the simple acoustic guitar, before each layer of the song is added over time. It’s has the full, well planned sound that many of the 3 chord “band of the week” artists are missing. While not as “taverny” as Picaresque or Castaways and Cutouts it still stays relatively true to the Decemberists feel…Pirates maybe, is that the feel I’m looking for?

This being their foray into major Label-hood with Capital, one might think that they’d transverse over into the poppy, radio friendly stylings, but instead, they stay true to their roots, with lyrically driven songs complete with unique vocal layerings. They did not “sell out” as many indie hair flippers might fear. The band continues to grow, and become more dynamic, whether is be singing what could only be considered a Murder Ballad in the track “The Shankhill Butchers”, to the slow progressions of the opening track “Crane Wife 3″, every bit of this album is fantastic.

Pay attention to the words of each song (I know, I know…”the words”…I’ve never denied my snobdom), as each track tells a unique story to paint an expansive and dynamic world. If you get the chance, pick up the rest of their library, as they have several full lengths, and EPs already under their belt.

A must buy.

Beer, Music