Seattle Subsonic

Fake Surfers Ain’t Fakin’ It

July 15th, 2009

I really envy musicians like Lars Finberg. As head honcho and clever genius for psycho-surf-punk outfit the Intelligence, he seems to really have it good. Not only does he get to call his own shots (writing, singing, recording), but those shots just keep landing right smack dab on the chin. A nice little label (In The Red Records) willing to let the creative juices flow doesn’t hurt either. After nearly a decade of toiling in unappreciative bands (A-Frames, Dipers, Unnatural Helpers) and keeping his profile lower than a sea floor—all the while honing his own project to the tune of three albums with escalating caliber—Finberg appears ready to bust out of his shell. Or at least ready to unleash another compelling catalog of murky, madcap pop yarns. Enter Fake Surfers, the fourth proper LP from the smart-alecky Pacific NW band.

As evidence of said shell-busting, the recording process this time around involved more than just Finberg: musicians from friendly bands (Wounded Lion, the Lamps, Christmas Island) were invited to help out in various capacities. “Pony People” is a cover of a Wounded Lion song, continuing the tradition that we saw with the cover of Thee Oh Sees’ “Block of Ice”. Finberg’s wife—Susanna Welbourne, who has the added distinction of being co-founder of local burlesque troupe The Atomic Bombshells—provides synth/bass lines and backup vocals. Perve Bird (guitar) and Beren Ekine-Huett (drums) round out the semi-rotating cast of live cohorts.

On the surface, this new record doesn’t stray too far from the zany and cataclysmically awesome Deuteronomy, and detractors might even suggest that the native Californian has once again “gone pop”. True, Finberg’s two most recent efforts deviate aesthetically from his home-recorded debut Boredom and Terror, but as artistic evolution will tell you: you can’t really grow as an artist without expanding your palette. For a band, then, whose moniker is “The Intelligence”, it’s only natural that it progressed from a less sophisticated MO to one where studio time and fleshier songs define its current output. That’s not to say, however, that all the sonic layering, deadpan criticism, and miscellaneous weirdoisms are gone; they ain’t. Finberg has even described it as “a hi-fi version of our first record”. With some subtle changes here and some new elements there, Fake Surfers is exactly what it intends to be: the next great record in glue-wave.

Opener “South Bay Surfers” is vintage Intelligence, with a familiar tom-tom beat and synthetic moaning. “I’m tired of fake surfing / It effects me / and I’m affected” Finberg wearily intones. “Debt & E.S.P.” corrupts the bass line from “My Sharona” into a rubbery guitar lead. An acoustic guitar makes a welcome appearance in the breezy “Warm Transfers”—don’t worry, a healthy dose of scratchy electricity closes the song out. “Universal Babysitter” is rockabilly-lite with some fun, hip-shakin’ twang. My favorite, and the undeniable hit of the album, is “Thank You God for Fixing the Tape Machine”. A pulsing drumbeat mobilizes some synthetic wailing and catchy guitar as the song poses as a cryptic microcosm of convenience, life, and religion, culminating in the squalling climax: “It doesn’t matter if it’s done better / if it’s already been done! / It’s not a number and it’s no letter / this devil worship’s no fun!”

Anyway, say hello to your new favorite band. They’ll be at the Comet on August 22nd.

South Bay Surfers