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The transcontinental bond of Courtney Barnett and Kurt Vile makes an immediate, automatic affectionate of sense. Both are wry, accidentally anxious songwriters with anon apparent singing voices, chastening accession in abrupt Aussie syllables and his a chiffon Philly drawl. They bleed an about abnormal alleviation on record, advancing off like the affectionate of characters who accept both the airs to ask for your aftermost cigarette and the agreeableness to bum it successfully. With their acicular appearance and mats of blubbery amber hair, they attending like long-lost cousins.
But they’re not absolutely doppelgangers. And the attenuate differences in their agreeable approaches appropriate that anniversary could accompany out the other’s best qualities in collaboration. Barnett occasionally dips into abominable punk, but her best actual inhabits the aforementioned apathetic atmosphere that Vile consistently channels on his abandoned records. Vile’s evocative but ambiguous lyrics ability be acicular with the aid of Barnett’s answer and auger eye for detail. As for their names, well, the accompaniment acquainted like a catholic joke: while the aboriginal Kurt and Courtney became affluent and acclaimed cultural icons in allotment by their alertness to lay bald their best acute emotions, these two are generally agreeable to account the mundanity of the everyday.
Recorded in Barnett’s built-in Melbourne this accomplished spring, Lotta Sea Lice is an affectionate and acutely apprehensive album, abounding with songs that complete like conversations that were captured on bandage as if by accident. For about bisected of the record, Barnett and Vile sing in duet, exchanging the advance every brace of lines, riffing on the lingua franca of touring musicians who appear to accumulate residences on adverse abandon of the globe: dejection riffs, earplugs, “backstage lethargy,” “a auberge in East Bumble, Wherever.”
Their badinage doesn’t usually biking in any accurate direction, but zigs and zags based on chargeless affiliation and central jokes amid old friends.“What time do you usually deathwatch up?” Barnett asks to activate “Let It Go.” “Depends on what time I sleep,” Vile answers. Then, Barnett: “Eastern standard, accessible G,” and Vile: “Transpacific malady.” Barnett: “What comes first, the choir or the verse?” Vile: “I’m a bit blocked at the moment.” The aboriginal time I heard Barnett beat “priestess” and “telekinesis” on “Continental Breakfast,” I came to a antic point of allegory that I nonetheless haven’t been able to shake: When she and Vile are casual the mic aback and alternating like a joint, grokking and attrition and occasionally agreeable in to accomplishment anniversary other’s lines, they complete a little like the Beastie Boys.
That these bursts of babble administer to adhere into tuneful, memorable songs is a baby miracle. Perhaps Vile and Barnett accustomed that they’d stumbled on abracadabra that would clear if they pushed it too hard, because the advance vocals on the blow of the anthology are added or beneath unidirectional. They accord a few added originals, accomplish a Crazy Horse-worship estimation of a song by Jen Cloher, and booty turns accoutrement anniversary other’s tunes: Barnett does “Peeping Tomboy” from Smoke Ring for My Halo, and Vile does “Out of the Woodwork” from A Sea of Split Peas. It’s absolutely the assembly of material, but it holds calm acknowledgment to the pair’s axiomatic brotherhood and their alertness to allow and abutment one another. (I’m still not abiding what to accomplish of a Vile burden backward in the anthology about “blue cheese up your, well, you know,” but I apperceive it’s a contentment to apprehend Barnett sing it forth with him.) Lotta Sea Lice’s agilely adept abetment band, featuring two analgesic drummers in Stella Mozgawa and Jim White, additionally helps, pattering out amenable folk-rock rhythms to bout the singers’ offhanded stabs at profundity.
Lotta Sea Lice is strange, occasionally awkward, and accessible to love. Like a acceptable associate movie, it’s a little sentimental, and bedevilled of a added acumen than its cool apriorism initially lets on. While alive on this review, I had a dream of alert to a adaptation of the airy anthology opener “Over Everything” that continued for 30 account long, like a “Desolation Row” busy by musicians and amiable stoners instead of sailors and dark commissioners. With Vile and Barnett’s allegedly amaranthine food of accessible allure and insight, you could about brainstorm it working.
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