[Album Review] Young Galaxy- Falsework
2.5Rating
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younggalaxy

Release Date: October 30th, 2015
Label: Paper Bag Records

The Office had tons of great scenes that dealt with piercing through the monotony of the day. One specific cold open managed to outdo many of these with regard to how normal it was. The employees sat in the conference room, watching–because peripherally viewing someone absolutely off their rocker shouldn’t count–their boss, while participating in a collective game of How Long Until the Screensaver Cube Hits A Corner. Everyone carefully eyes the technicolour cube, and even though its path has been programmed already, the crew can’t help but think that life isn’t fatalistic. That maybe the cube will actually hit a corner. Young Galaxy’s Falsework plays with this game a lot, repetitively hashing out each semi-vapid chorus until, finally, they hit the glorious corner of bliss. Some of the time they do.

You could call them an even more indie form of Dragonette minus explodingly poppy dance rhythms. Because, frankly, Falsework isn’t really an album truly about the dance experience. It finds itself grounded in situations like those awkward silences at a Starbucks when your date is immediately bored. Somehow you strike a forty-minute-or-so conversation about who you’d love to fight if you had the chance to exchange fisticuffs with them. Both of you become only partially entranced by your separate idiosyncrasies. So, when critic/writer Sean Michaels weaved an elegant tale about love and this album, things began to make sense. But albums and stories shouldn’t be super glued together. The saying is that the author is dead, so trusting anyone to create a story based on an album with more bleep bloops than words can be crazy talk. That said, the words do manage to hit the heart. Catherine McCandless has incredible aim when singing.

Wanted to dance on your stair steps while not worrying about injuring limbs? Wanted to “wager your saneness for madness?” “Wear Out the Ground” might feel right for you, depending on whether you can stand an endearing chorus ruined with each further listen. “The Night Wants Us to be Free” is frog-like, with its ribbitting keys and atmosphere akin to a Natasha Bedingfield record being played nonstop at a grocery store. This minimal fashion can bring about boredom to some, but fans might like such a quality in their coffee.

“Factory Flaws” is a nice change of pace, with a better dance groove that almost hints at some Spanish flair. Orchestral strings feel majestic and McCandless sings with personality along the deep bass. “Body” disconnects many textures and allows them to go along with what they want, like a permissive parent who struck luck with kids that aren’t monsters. Unfortunately, “Body” has no idea when to cut itself short, a problem reflected on the beachy, yet obnoxious “Ready to Shine,” a track that has the problem of shining–whatever that would entail. Everything about it is so clean, and due to this author’s love for Sara Bareilles’ tone, which can be felt here, hating the track completely would not be in his nature.

Many people will reference the ’70s and ’80s when it comes to the particular electronic swagger in Falsework‘s pop (“Must Be Love”). Why not add the 2000’s aesthetic of friendly grocery music? “We’re No Good” tinges the record with a sadness that this work has been lacking. Young Galaxy aren’t a robot with a smile permanently affixed on their faces.  Pianos and strings can create something emotional, unlike the Owl City electronics and pulsing lasers of “Little Wave,” a partially dance-worthy hit. “Lean Into My Love” pops in with a sound that really wants to crescendo to one-up the tinier strings, while “Pressure,” the closer, is more like R&B with an unhealthy dose of chillwave.

Good things do happen for those who wait, whether it’s a cube finally hitting a corner or a band hitting the right notes before completely losing listeners. Young Galaxy manage to hit their notes favourably, for the better part. They don’t offend, but when they manage to with their almost monotonous choruses, they don’t do it on purpose. It’s a clumsy accident. Idiosyncrasy-wise, some like clumsy.