February 3, 2004 by A.S. Van Dorston

As much as I like Wilco, I don’t think the band merited a movie and a book at this point in their careers. Everyone now knows the smug “we-showed-them” tale of how they were dropped by their label only to be picked up by a subsidiary of the same company. But it’s not like the band did anything. This was just routine, boring business conducted by the band’s handlers, while Jeff Tweedy passive-aggressively alienated and terrorized his band. The Walkmen may not be ready for a feature length documentary either, but they’re certainly more inspiring. After previous incarnation, next-big-thing Jonathan Fire * Eater was unceremoniously dumped by the label, they made lemonade from the lemons by building their own studio in Harlem, taking on additional members from Decoy and crafting a completely new, distinctly uncommercial sound on 2002’s enigmatic Everyone Who Pretended To Like Me Is Gone. Ironically, Saturn picked up the distinctly uncommercial, meandering “We’ve Been Had” for use in a commercial, exponentially expanding their name recognition, if not record sales.

Rather than add a disco beat to capitalize on their potential success, the band put out another challenging album. But not without some extremely pleasant surprises. “What’s In It For Me” starts Bows + Arrows as a sort of reprise of the previous album’s sound of delicate organs, rustic beauty that sparkles and floats, like Nick Cave and The Pogues crafting drunken holiday hymns. And then the album shudders from impact of the supersonic “The Rat,” firing with all barrels blazing a full-on stadium rock assault mode never heard from this band before. Snowglobes are shattered and gauze incinerated in the afterburn as the savage drums propel Hamilton Leithauser’s angry howling, “You’ve got a nerve to be calling my number! You’ve got a nerve to be asking for favors!” This is a startling change of pace to say the least, like watching an acoustic folk combo becoming Naked Raygun, or a mogwai transforming into a gremlin. The juiciest part of this is that there are at least four songs that are better.

As John Lydon once said, anger is an energy. While “The Rat” used enough to cause another East Coast blackout, it’s transformed into an uplifting force in “Little House of Savages.” Here the early U2 comparisons start to make sense, as this serves well as a heart-pounding, fist-pumping stadium-ready anthem, with Leithauser’s voice bearing some resemblance to Bono’s, were he to smoke unfiltered cigarettes and gargle with whiskey, coke and pop-rocks. “Thinking Of A Dream I Had” is another top contender, a key feature being a Pixies-inspired organ riff, surfing the galloping beat. On the other end of the spectrum is the most delicate number, “Hang On, Siobhan,” a rewrite of an Appalacian ballad with a weeping piano. “Bows + Arrows” bows out in slow, kingly stride. In addition to the stunners, all of the songs offer something great, with not a single bum track. “138th Street” is a folky ballad sung in a cadence that brings to mind early Dylan, while “New Year’s Eve” could be Dylan were he young today, a bristling package of simultaneous sneering putdowns, lecherous lust and melancholy.

If more big touring bands got my pulse racing like The Walkmen, I’d buy season tickets to the arenas. Meanwhile, catch them in the more intimate clubs while you still can.