“Who gives a fuck about an Oxford comma!?”. It’s the query on the tip of many a tongue right now. Actually, it really is, more so than you might think. Rather improbably, New York’s roulette wheel garage-indie kids (and then some), Vampire Weekend, have become a cause célèbre for 2008, going so far as to intrigue the curious end of the mainstream and become a pin badge for experimentalism. There is certainly an aspect of ‘well, it’s a harebrained illogical scheme almost certainly doomed to failure, but it’s so damned crazy it might just work’ to it. But examine the blueprint alone, see it plainly in black and white, and you’ll surely balk at such optimism. At the heart of this bewildering debut album is the bluntness of entry-level post-Strokes new wave, but that foundation is drowned many times over in swathes of glib reggae rhythm, punchy African music flavour, formal jabbing string sections, a drizzle of olde folk, elastic vocal and lyrical bundles and general hazy sunshine vibes. It’s a heady cocktail for any trad indie palette and would probably get laughed out of the Dragon’s Den, but whether by accident or design there is something in its construct that captivates over and over, sometimes becoming quite irresistible.
Back to that question, then, posed in ‘Oxford Comma’ as a rally against our dear Queen’s tongue, as observed by singer Ezra Koenig in English period dramas and forcing the reflection: “if there’s any other way to spell the word, that’s fine by me”. There are clearly still new ways to rebel. This curveball lyrical theme is indicative of a whole album that might flirt with conformity, as a glue to hold the thing together, but certainly isn’t in debt to it.
Originality (or at least new order and experience) is not in short supply, they are highly rhythmically aware and they share a similar procedural work ethic to zip-code peers TV On The Radio, just using different raw materials. ‘A-Punk’ is a jerky, Bermuda-shorted distortion of ska buoying along on airy keyboards, ‘Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa’ bangs on about Peter Gabriel but sounds like Paul Simon on a mild hallucinogen, ‘Campus’ sounds like British Sea Power with a head transplant performed by witch doctor and the double of ‘I Stand Corrected’ and ‘Walcott’ are their most straight pop songs, albeit skewed slightly with strings, chimes and allsorts. Things do from time to time do seem formulaically unformulaic, and as reported almost everywhere else ‘M79’ sounds far too much like the theme tune to Ski Sunday to actually enjoy. It’s not perfect, but by and large this debut album is the enjoyable side of having your ears tickled with a feather.