Foals takes on dance-rock crossover
Published April 1, 2008
The story of Foals is a perfect example of hype gone horribly right. If we label the release of the Oxford fivesome’s particularly bloggable debut as the moment Foals left the gates, the strangely appropriate pun left to describe its fans would have to be “chomping at the bit.” For the latest in a pack of hype machines to gallop onto the UK’s post-Arctic Monkeys music landscape, it’s fitting that the band’s first album is as ambitious as it is advertised. Reviews are in their favor, if history is not.
On the surface, Antidotes plays as an attempt to pick up where Bloc Party left off, like some slightly groovier missing link between “Hunting for Witches” and “Flux.” Beyond this shallow comparison, though, is an album that owes as much to dance as it does to rock — Klaxons covering The Rapture covering Gang of Four, if you will. Antidotes is a full-on, genre-bending mix of the two, the end result a dexterous range of songs clocking in at under two minutes and over five to cover a lyrical agenda in which vampires and ancient Romans alike join the band’s rabidly growing fan base.
That said, it’s difficult to separate serious from sarcastic on an album that begins with the words to a French television ad but calls itself something as serious as Antidotes. Although the title hints at a theme, “The French Open”’s attention to “rockets” and “gadgets” underlines a lyrical inconsistency further developed in “Cassius.” While Klaxons alluded to Julius Caesar, Foals takes on his betrayer in what has to be the most infinitely shoutable Roman-inspired jabberwocky released this side of 2007. With its bawdy unirhythm and childishly abstract lyrics, “Cassius” is a deceptively studied take on the crossover track for a band whose style is generally quick and brainless.
The guys are good at short and sweaty. Antidotes’ overly patterned guitar performs more of a ceremonial function than anything, the band’s curious riffs relegating the instrument to beeping, like EKG machines buried in the album’s brassy overtones. Front man Yannis Philippakis’ diluted whinny is somewhat wounded by his generation’s emphasis of accent over substance, but it makes an easy transition from “Ah, hell no!” to sentimental heart metaphors (“Red Sock Pugie”). If there’s one area Foals has cornered, it’s the mix and match.
Neighsayers will bemoan Antidote’s lack of choruses, and the direction is an uncomfortable one in songs already outstripped by brass and guitar patterns. The lyrics, too, are often unworthy of their settings, as though the band is making a point of not making one. “Olympic Airways”’s promise to “go to an aviary far away from home” would be more romantic if only bird cages were, but it’s far above its successor in sense and sappiness. “A one-hand clap is me and you and you and you and you.” (See also: Kasabian.)
On the whole, Foals operates under a belief that the high-hat cures all, to the point that “Big Big Love (Fig. 2)”’s otherwise lethargic outro is overpowered by restless percussion. The mix is equal parts abstract and disjointed, a quixotic blend that, when combined with an overwhelming sense of ambition, provides the blueprint for all that is Foals.
Overwhelming potential, warts and all, the best thing to do with Foals is to file the band under “to be determined” and wait for its follow-up. Antidotes is better than it was hoped to be and worse than it was hyped to be, stalled at the editing stage their next will have to pass.
No pressure, right?
