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Artist: ROCK PLAZA CENTRAL |
In the interest of journalistic integrity, we must confess that the premise behind Rock Plaza Central’s Are We Not Horses (2006) had us worried. A concept album about horses would have been bad enough. (See, for example, Wiley and the Wild West’s touching Hooves of the Horses, which features such tasteful classics as “Mmm…Montana,” and “Leather Lover.”) A concept album about Trojan horses, loss, and betrayal could have been even worse (viz. Troy Nillson’s craptacular Trojan Horses: The Deep Songs of Troy Nillson, which is enough to make your ears bleed). But a concept album about mechanical horses who think they’re real, slap a few tasteful bows in their hair, and set out to conquer a posse of angels? Frankly, we expected more from the auteurs of Quantam Butterass.
But despite a preposterous premise, a penchant for horns, and even a twee children’s choir (all things that normally get the Cheeze-o-meter whirring), Are We Not Horses is a quirky, cool listen. What makes the album click? It’s not just lead singer Chris Eaton’s slyly earnest voice, which, if it had a face, would kick ass at poker. Nor is it merely the corny-yet-coy wordplay on songs such as “We Will Not Be Defeated,” a Slavic oompa oompa tune that transforms trite bravado (“They can take our bones and bury them deep under the river, but we’ll still be together and we cannot be defeated”) into a goofy meta-commentary on the ‘bones tooting in the background. Playful lyrics and Eaton's charming bleat help, but the album works, quite simply, because these Torontonians are first-rate musicians. And while they share more than a predilection for the equine with 16 Horsepower, the crucial difference is that--angels notwithstanding--RPC is decidedly not on the glory train.
For a taste of what we mean, check out the superbly angsty and atmospheric title track [WINDOWS MEDIA CLIP] in which copper-maned horses tend to “satellite sores” and wallow in existential doubts against a backdrop of ominously discordant trumpets. Or try not to be seduced by the outrageous pick-up lines in the Wee Willie Shantz-esque “Fifteen Hands,” (“I got fifteen hands, I can take you to heaven, That’s four more than eleven, eight more than seven…”). It shouldn’t work, but it does, and certain other idiosyncratic musicians that we’re far too magnanimous to name (pardon us while we stifle a Sufjan) would do well to take note.
In summation: Like Modest Mouse or the Decembrists, Rock Plaza Central makes a bee-line for the cheezy and transforms it into an off-beat, sonically compelling gem. One gratuitous cheezeball for the occasional, irredeemable groaner (ie.“All my bitchin’ leaves me hoarse.”)
hl
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A NOTE ON THE RATING SYSTEM:
5 CHEEZEBALLS = UNLISTENABLE SCHLOCK
3 CHEEZEBALLS = A DIFFICULT SLOG
1 CHEEZEBALL = THE ODD FORGIVABLE MISSTEP
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