Braids
Deep in the Iris
Reviewed by: Max Miller
When it comes to describing music, “indie” is one of those irritatingly unspecific terms like “post-punk” or “swirling.” (Don’t waste your time checking — I’ve almost certainly used all three in the past.) Beyond the latently racist and classist implications behind the term’s rise to popularity that have recently come under scrutiny, it’s just plain vague; generally, it refers to any number of artists from the past decade who’ve mixed some degree of rock, pop and electronic influences into some kind of catchy, pseudo-progressive stew that probably aims for stadiums and festivals, or at least car commercials and television trailers.
That being said, Braids are most definitely an “indie” band. Wikipedia is kind enough to refer to the Calgary trio as “art rock,” an equally nondescript term. The point is this: Deep In the Iris, the group’s third full-length, feels like a 40-minute advertisement which cannot be skipped. (Have I used that description in the past? It feels like I have. I’ve certainly felt that way a lot lately.) Over the course of nine tracks, singer Raphaelle Standell-Preston whispers lyrics that paint emotion with wide, sloppy brushstrokes (“You’re exactly what I like/ I will give you my whole life/ Oh you taste so right/ Oh, this feels so right” from “Taste”) in a cadence resembling Björk or Future Islands’ Samuel T. Herring. Standard-issue synthesizers from the MGMT/Passion Pit/who-the-fuck-ever-I-don’t-even-care-anymore school ping around in the background over dense piano chords and stuttering breakbeats. Literally every song follows this formula. Every song except “Miniskirt” which aims some well-placed barbs at rape culture and sounds as truly mournful and affecting as the rest of the album should.
I truly apologize if I seem like I’m just being snarky for snark’s sake; I assure you I am not enjoying this in the slightest. I just cannot stand sitting through albums this dull anymore, be they samey lo-fi bedroom pop, ambient electronica, derivative college rock or, as in this case, faceless “indie.” Deep In the Iris is just the straw the broke the camel’s back, I guess. On opener “Letting Go”, Standell-Preston repeats “the hardest part’s letting go” ad nauseum. I’d argue that the hardest part’s pushing play.
Rating: Intolerable
