9.5

I received an email yesterday from someone wondering my opinion on Vampire Weekend. My initial response was that this was another product of the music blog hype machine in this Pitchfork age; where one rave review can turn into 10 can turn into 100, and before you know it the band is undeservingly selling out headlining gigs at Bowery Ballroom. Well, this is me eating my words. Take a picture, it will last longer.

A closer listen to this record reveals the undeniable truth that this…unfortunately…is an amazing, amazing record. I say ‘unfortunately,’ because I dislike “hype” bands with the strongest bias. I dislike the term “Hype Bands.” The only hype band that has been worthy of the ludicrous amounts of praise that they have received are the Royal Arctic Monkeys of England (“How many pingbacks can I get out of this post?” she wondered). A great record? Yeah. The greatest thing since Poptarts? No.

I’m not going to sit here and brag about how I first posted about this band 12 years ago (OK, 1), how it’s the best record of the year no matter what comes out from this point forward (regardless of the fact that it’s January). I’m not going to link you to their student film trailer, or live performances from their unconventional concert at Roosevelt Island, OR the debut of their new song “White Skies” from the Bowery show this week. I just don’t buy into hype that easily.

Now, on to the record. It seems that the backlash of this over-hype will be minimal. This is due entirely to the fact that every song on Vampire Weekend’s Self Titled XL Recordings debut is, in a word, stellar. Forget the world-music-afro-beat genre dropping you’ve been hearing about (though, clearly, it is a huge influence – and the band was first “hyped” on an African music blog). This is pop music. And it’s great pop music. The clean island-influenced style, catchy melodies, and Ezra Koenig’s swirl-y vocals recall the best of early Police, or early Paul Simon, or, yes, even Peter Gabriel (who is cleverly name-dropped in the cleverly titled “Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa,” which paints a picture perfect bedroom in a picture perfect weekend house with a sandy lawn, Louis Vuitton…and Peter Gabriel too).

Forget the fact that they are rich New York City boys from Columbia University who sip cosmos on the Lower East Side after the gig discussing fresh sea food and Bazillion funk (I don’t know if this is true, but can’t you just see that?) with friends named Blake and Bryn (who have “a new face” and “eyes like a seagull”…?). Even though they do poo poo Wellfleet, Provincetown, and even Hyannisport (it’s “a ghetto”) on album highlight “Walcott,” you don’t get the sense of snobbery as much as irony from the snooty references. After all, they’d rather chill in Jersey.

Between the 80’s ska infused pop of “A-Punk” and the classical strings of “M79,” there is no possibility of pegging this band with any one style or blog-genre. The student-professor love story that takes place in one of the most expensive schools in the country on “Campus” (”You’re out on the stone and grass/And I’m sleeping on the balcony after class”), is hardly regular subject matter for an album by an underground four piece from NYC.

You can call this Afro-pop, Reggae-post-indie, ‘Upper West Side Soweto,’ whatever you’d like. You can hate on the hype and hope to Delancey that this is a terrible record. Alas, this is 11 perfect pop songs on a perfect debut album, no matter how you toast it.

Sorry, Matt.