The Wrens - The Meadowlands

Seven years in the making, The Meadowlands is perhaps one of the most overlooked indie rock gems of the past 10 years. The intricately layered guitars, the seemingly sloppy drums that nonetheless somehow manage to fall perfectly into place, and the epic yet unpretentious transitions may initially remind some of Built to Spill's earlier work--specifically There's Nothing Wrong with Love and Perfect From Now On (both of which are fantastic albums, by the way). That is, if they were made while Doug Martsch et. Al were stuck in an elevator with the Pixies and Steve Albini. And until one remembers that Martsch preferred metaphorical anecdotes over the raw, concrete, emotion (dare I say poetry?) that frontman Charles Bissell conveys through a voice that is so simultaneously gut-wrenching, angry, sad, and beautiful that it's near impossible not to be reminded of both Elliot Smith and Black Francis.

While The Wrens have always been about filtering Beach Boys-esque melodies through the raw, distorted power of the Pixies, The Meadowlands fuses this wrath, emotion, and melody in a way that their previous albums (as well as their power-pop predecessors such as Teenage Fanclub) never could. Despite the fact that labeling The Wrens as power-pop might be a stretch, in a certain way The Meadowlands is the album that every power-pop band wished they could make: Bissell and his cohorts firmly reject not also the banal subject matter but also the repetitive songwriting structures that always seem to be the baggage of this mini-genre, while firmly clinging to the emotional power, raw guitars, and straight-up catchiness that have always been an integral part of this amazing band.

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