The 1990s were a good time for emotional indie rock. Bands like The Smiths, Radiohead and Belle and Sebastian all peaked during this tumultuous decade. In addition to these popular bands, though, the ‘90s saw the rise of a number of smaller groups that managed to amass substantial followings. Such was the case with Low, a slow-core band out of Minnesota.
Partial to long, drawn out chords and consistent rhythms, the group gave concerts that were more known for lethargic head-nodding than for vigorous head-bobbing. Given the fact that the group is relatively quiet — “low” in both volume and pitch — the band’s name fits well. It’s even rumored that in a performance at South by Southwest, their performance was overwhelmed by the amplification of a heavy rock band playing nearby.
This relative quietness doesn’t make for easy-listening music, however. Low has struggled to maintain a solid fanbase, releasing albums every few years, all with a similar sound. Although these records have perhaps satisfied the dedicated Low-fan, they have been far from provocative.
The most recent studio album, ‘The Invisible Way,’ is only a bit different. Although most songs rely less on atmospheric droning of the electric guitar than those in previous albums, they are just as slow and perhaps even drearier. Produced by Wilco’s Jeff Tweedy and recorded in his famous studio loft, the album relies on distinctive acoustic instruments and vocal harmonies.
Matching the minimalist nature of the short, characteristically slow tracks, the lyrics are simple and thus vague. Even when mournful, though, the vocals boast a pleasant folkish sound.
But it’s because of this very light-hearted folksy sound that the vague lyrical laments seem insincere and even trivial, as in the song “Waiting,” where frontman Alan Sparhawk sings “The truth can hide/Sometimes right behind the sorrow.” Where the band would traditionally sound meditative and thoughtful under a veil of low, dramatic repetition, the lyrics now sound high-pitched and whiny.
The album’s best songs reincorporate electrictronic instrumentation. In “On My Own,” a delightful piano forms the melody but an electric guitar emerges about two minutes in, abandoning lyrics and changing the song entirely. The hand of Jeff Tweedy is heavy here; choosing to alternate between harsh electronic sounds and the soft tone of piano keys is a classic Wilco theme. The question is whether Low, a band that has stuck to consistent and constant chording and sound, pulls off the transfiguration.
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