the fresh & mantles

I watched the Girls’ multiple live videos on Pitchfork.tv. The Hellhole Ratrace video (not live) made me suddenly and (kind of) urgently understand what it is about them that works: as conventional as they *sound*, as normal as their music is, not only are they themselves weird, they *are* exactly what San Francisco prides itself on being, but no longer is. In other words, SF is a city that has outlived it’s reputation as a bastion of hedonism and hippieism and anything-goes-ism; Girls are like what the city is supposed to be — what people around the world believe it to be and how it sees itself — updated. The world wants that, however much it protests that it doesn’t. ALSO, this too was not lost on me: Everything they do has a tinge of autobiography about it. Their interviews are mostly about them as people, their promo photos incorporate shots of their friends, their videos — esp. the HHRR one, if you haven’t seen it, but all of them really — are as much about representing what their their lives and their nights are like as they are about the song. And that, combined with this idea that they are living *real* SF (which — honestly — isn’t *real* SF anymore), and that they’re shameless (even — gasp! — proud…) of it, makes them this kind of timeless band that is, impossibly, totally of the moment, AND of a moment past. I don’t want to turn them into minor deities or anything, but I think these things all play a part in a kind of magical way. And I just felt that so profoundly and truly watching that video.

— Email from my girlfriend Kali yesterday

I realize you are probably sick of Girls at this point. We’ve been crowing about them for almost a year now, and finally the rest of the world has caught up, and their record is just going to keep getting bigger and bigger and bigger. There’s no stopping it. But I didn’t want to talk about Girls today: I wanted to talk about two other, much smaller San Francisco bands that I’ve fallen deeply in love with that embody that same spirit that Kali mentioned before. That old-world San Francisco hedonism, not the dot-com money or the old gold rush money that dresses up in pearls and gowns to see local trust-funders the Two Gallants (true story).

I want to talk about the San Francisco of fuck-ups, that class of person that’s always there, but is now getting love because that kind of life — or, to be more accurate, the idea of that kind of life — is so fashionable. It’s always been there, it’s just that now we’re being told that’s a life to want as we (pretend to) recoil from the overrun consumerism of the past twenty years in search of un-commercialized realness, or as close an approximation as our corporatist structure will allow. (Sorry, been reading a lot of neo-Marxism lately.)

Anyway, so there’s the Fresh & Onlys, whose record was an instant hit for me. “Invisible Forces,” one of the record’s best songs, could easily have landed on that first, incredible Interpol EP. It’s got that same deep tone and serious weight, but it’s a pop song all the same. The rest of the self-titled record bounces between vaguely goth post-punk and then that busted garage stuff that everyone’s going gaga for.

But what’s great about the Fresh & Onlys’ garage is that at least it’s weird. Beat Happening are clearly a big influence, and “Black Coffin” is a completely worthy follow-up to Calvin Johnson’s “Black Candy,” this big tumbling ugly thing with terrible lyrics but just about the best sound imaginable. And the whole record really follows that path. It might be a little too weird to break wide, but that’s all the more reason to love it.

The other record that I can’t stop making out with is by the Mantles, another SF band. Their self-titled debut is more self-consciously San Francisco than anything else here. It jangles for one thing, which melds nicely with their hip, lo-fi garage sound. “Look Away” and “Don’t Lie” are my two favorites, “Look Away” this weirdly tender, oddly structured ballad, and “Don’t Lie,” this incredible melancholy thing. (“Don’t Lie” is a bit normal for my tastes, which does well for the band.) There’s also “James,” whose verses sound exactly like the Replacements’ “Bastards of Young” (they could legitimately press charges), but its chorus is so particularly early British punk in its melody — yo-yoing up and down and all of it with this weird lilt. It’s a nice surprise.

Neither of these records are world-beaters, but they are pleasant obsessions, always solid and always ready to please. Give them a try.