Any discussion about Contra, Vampire Weekend’s sophomore effort, has to begin with its album cover. Then it’s got to touch on why their music is just as classical as it is tribal, the album as party and Ezra Koenig as David Byrne. But first off, that girl.
What adorns the sleeve of the vinyl, or gazes out from the CD case, or peers up at you from a diminutive iPod screen, is a picture. Her expression is blank, her yellow Polo collar floppily half-popped, her lips slightly parted. The photograph is clearly old, aged; it screams “prep,” the 80s lifestyle buzzword that’s been slapped on Vampire Weekend to the point of meaninglessness. The image is striking, vivid, alive. It’s art, a genuinely stylish example of what was recognized as emblematic beauty in a bygone era. If you want to kneecap the photo’s value because of an issue with the girl’s aesthetic, than you’re exactly the type of person that Ezra Koenig and co. have no time for.
Hell, a significant bunch of the consumers of Contra will probably never see its cover, considering the manner in which most music is consumed today, but that’s not how it’s meant to be.
Much has been made of VW’s assumed snobbishness, their silver-spoon hijacking of the indie rock apparatus. Regardless, there was nothing about their self-titled debut that spoke of nepotism, other than maybe a debt to Paul Simon’s Graceland and an intimate knowledge of Cape Cod (Kennedys, anyone?).
Contra is no different in its merit, but it’s an altered cut of similar cloth: the same African-inspired rhythms and vibrant percussion, this time warmed by generous piano and tinged with electro. In fact, the omnipotence of strings and keys is almost as noticeable as the more exotic leanings, a clue that anyone pegging VW as a one-trick pony has selective hearing.
One major weapon that VW’s added to its arsenal this time around is a newly developed sense of fun. In the same way that Wes Anderson’s films are pleasant and enjoyable but rarely an off-the-rails good time, Vampire Weekend stayed relatively under control. It was an ebullient and sunny record, but except for on “A-Punk” and the last half of “Walcott” (dropping the f-bomb on “Oxford Comma” notwithstanding), the band never seemed to loosen their collars, so to speak.
Not true for Contra. “Cousins” is contagiously joyful, a burst of guitar-and-bravado brilliance careening on a frenetic Chris Baio bassline and Chris Tomson’s relentless drumming. “California English” has the same almost out-of-control feel, carried by bubbling electronics and Koenig’s borderline-incomprehensible vocals. Though “English” seems, at first, to be a less focused sister of earlier track “White Sky,” its obvious intrigue with itself is contagious, and the song unfolds with repeated listens. It’s true that, if you were among those whose preferred touchstone for VW is “Graceland,” you’ll be falling over yourself after hearing these two tracks, but this is far from a bad thing.
Koenig especially seems to have broadened his repertoire this time around. Throughout Contra, the boyish frontman can usually be found shrieking, shouting, rocking a girlish falsetto or singing so fast he’s nearly rapping (not that he’d be the first to rap over a VW instrumental—see Kid Cudi’s “Cudderisback”). In fact, his vocal gesticulations—coupled with the college-boy aesthetic, an outsider ethos, a taste for the African and that consistent attack on pretentiousness—call to mind an 80s tastemaker not named Paul Simon: David Byrne. Nowhere on Contra is this clearer than “Holiday,” with its weaving bassline and hyperactive guitar/drum combo.
Really, there are a number of connections here between Contra and Talking Heads’ second go, More Songs About Buildings and Food, with a similar balance between the raucous and the more restrained, except Koenig lacks all of Byrne’s art-school weirdness and the Heads hadn’t gotten quite so tribal yet (their soul moorings are somewhere that VW could plausibly explore). A loose connection right now, sure, but could be worth remembering if Koenig can keep multi-instrumentalist Rostam Batmanglij around.
As for those slower songs. Contra sees something VW hadn’t tried yet: length. “Giving Up the Gun” clocks in at 4:46, a little repetitive in its electro-leaning thump—which calls to mind Batmanglij’s other gig, Discovery. Ironically, it’s the even longer “Diplomat’s Son”—a hefty 6:01—that really succeeds in its bombast. Built on maracas, a vocal loop and some pace-changing piano, Koenig’s tale of a diplomat’s son in 1981 employs most of the production tricks in VW’s arsenal as well as some serious musical chops. And maybe most important of all, the song situates the album, at least to a point, in New York City: a Googling of “diplomat’s son 1981” reveals a three-paragraph New York Times brief mentioning the hit-and-run of a man by—you guessed it—a diplomat’s son.
The track serves as a smooth lead-in to closer “I Think UR a Contra,” an ethereal, meditative offering that features one of Koenig’s most telling lines: “You wanted good schools/And friends with pools/You’re not a contra/You wanted rock and roll/Complete control/Well, I don’t know.” Vampire Weekend continues to straddle the river dividing these two avenues of thought, but with Contra they’ve taken an impressive step toward proving that their position isn’t so unnatural.
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