James Pants has constructed a hazy hypothesis for psychedelic pop. His sound is inexplicably vintage, and in many ways; an audio representation of obscure '70s experimentalists attempting to fuse together the long-studied paradox of left-field esteem vs. pop sensibilities. Although his roots lie firmly within the ongoing bedroom neo-pysch class, which is beginning to form into a respectable entity as focus is placed on entire album's worth of material, and less on word-of-mouth blog-hit-wonders. On his latest self-titled effort, James Pants spikes these ideas into a single beaker; one part inaudible vocal feedback [gaseous], two parts dreamy escalator pop [liquid], and three parts dazed lo-fi distortion [solid].
What sets Pants apart from his easiest of contemporaries (Ariel Pink, John Maus, Toro Y Moi) is his always altering aesthetic. While all of James Pants could essentially fit into the same genre, each song branches out of its essence and flocks for varying grounds. Opener "Beta" arrives within the drenched smog of a quarter-laced downtown arcade, as police vehicles fly down the street corners in search of Pants' vocal feedback. When "Screams of Passion" appears, vintage synthesizers pulsate a gloomy rhythm, as Pants lazily echos beyond the horizon. Contradicting this is the frequent-flyer-groove of tunes like "Kathleen", which slaps its way through dream restrained clouds of lusty narrative.
Ultimately James Pants is a strikingly flexible listen, consisting of cohesive elements arranged through the eye of a kaleidoscopic lens. Whether it's lush chords laced with subtle, aired vocals, murky indie-pop resonance, or atmospheric lounge jams; I would be hard-pressed to name a single bad track on this album. Its only flaws are a result of its disconnected and independent nature, although even the cheaper sounding beats and processed vocals give the album a certain dizzying aura, a psychedelic charm of sorts. If this is indeed how James Pants' hears the world around him, it may sound something like a cross-processed impression of relentless grooves, vintage lounge funk, and fading hues of vague nostalgia. May it all flow free through the red oceanic skies of its gracing cover.
[James Pants Stones Throw Page]
[Buy James Pants from Stones Throw]
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