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Rubik is like Bruce Willis in “The Sixth Sense”: they’re dead; they just don’t know it yet. Sorry, I had to get a M. Knight Shamalayan reference in—and why not? Life is a wasteland where crap music sells and quality songs don’t, baby, so listen to good albums like “Dada Bandits” before they vanish with a poof.
And that’s too bad. I love bands like Rubik: poppy but not mainstream, interesting but not opaque enough for hipsters to claim squatting rights. Unfortunately, that’s also why “Dada Bandits” is destined to fail. I’ve seen far too many unsung albums buried alive by commercial and critical indifference already. So I’m here to rescue this album, perhaps, before that last shovel full of dirt chokes the life out of it.
When I held “Dada Bandits” for the first time, several things popped out. It has a bizarre title. The album art features a floating hairpiece with animals flying through where the face should be. It is by a mysterious unknown band. Call me crazy, but first impressions don’t get much better than this.
Listening to the album for the first time, I thought, “Rubik isn’t fashionable,” except their twitchy, buoyant pop songs reminded me of groups like New Pornographers or Of Montreal. Which actually makes them, in some circles, very fashionable.
As I sit at the computer typing this review, I’m listening to track four, “Wasteland,” an anthem about how we’re all living in a—you guessed it—wasteland. It sounds like the Arcade Fire, but the hooks come quicker and the peaks are just as high. Cynicism has never sounded this sugary.
Now I’m listening to track six, “Fire Age.” The militaristic drumbeats lead up to this question posed by the chorus: “What if it’s too real? So real it’s surreal?” This is some inventive wordplay, and like a lot of Rubik’s lyrics, it’s sort of Dada. I’m disoriented, but happy.
I am in the midst of an amazing run of indie-pop, nine strong tracks in a row - a lineup like the 1996 Baltimore Orioles. Nine players on that team hit at least 20 home runs. I am also in the midst of a self-indulgent detour. Yes, I am an Orioles fan. Anyway, every song on “Dada Bandits” is good, catchy stuff, except for track 10. This kind of consistency is extremely rare in any musical genre or flavor.
I am at the penultimate track now, “Follow Us to the Edge of the Desert,” the first and only bum note on the album, an agonizing mishmash of piano playing and moan-singing. It’s a real stink bomb. Thankfully, the album ends with the bouncy “Altitudes.”
“Richard Branson’s Crash Landing,” “Radiants” and “Karhu Junassa” are great songs, too—frantic, hook-filled, and sugar-rushed.
I can’t pick a favorite song, so I’ll give you the straight poop. For a group dropping their first North American album, Rubik is confident, winsome and catchy as Donald Driver with stick-um on his gloves. I dare you to name one bad song on this album (with the exception of track 10, which reeks). If you try this, I will refute you.
Frank Zappa was Dada. Andre Breton was Dada. Animal Collective is sort of Dada. Rubik doesn’t embody the art movement so much as name-check it, like the White Stripes did with De Stijl early in their career, but I won’t scold Rubik for trying. I will root for them as long as I can, but if/when the public reacts with indifference in the future, I will make myself feel better by saying Rubik’s style was a little too derivative. Derivative works best on major labels, not on indie labels like Fullsteam Records.
In a highly improbable alternate reality, they will be in a cell phone commercial or have a glowing review in Pitchfork, catapulting them into career artists who put a smile on my face for the next fifteen years.
In this less-forgiving actual reality, I’ll be happy if Rubik makes another album. They could even tackle another art movement. Art Deco, anyone?
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