I make no secret of my disdain for the insularity of indie-rock’s cultish die-hards and ideologues. It’s partly because I would hate to restrict my own listening to any one vein of modern popular music, but also because I’m inherently suspicious of any subculture that has no awareness of – or use for – the mass culture. Indie-rock in particular has traditionally been a bastion of the privileged anyway. So when a small-time band makes the leap to a big-time label, whether for the sonic luxuries afforded by beefed-up studio facilities, the financial stability that a bigger advance provides, or simply the adulation of millions, I can’t help but wrinkle my nose at the cries of “sell-out” that inevitably accompany such a move. I mean, who are we to fathom the motives of people we probably know very little about? Even the biggest music stars make chicken feed next to Hollywood royalty (not to mention record execs), and what many indie partisans fail to grasp in their pursuit of some illusory ideal of purity is that a turn towards commercialism often changes a band’s music for the better (Nirvana, anyone?). Not only that, but a lot of indie bands suck.
Rilo Kiley is not one of those bands. Formed right in the heart of showbiz capital Los Angeles by a couple of Hollywood brats (co-founders Jenny Lewis and Blake Sennett were both child actors), the group deals in the kind of tuneful, pretty, vaguely singer-songwriterish folk-rock that few would mistake for indie if they hadn’t been label mates with Bright Eyes. And, wouldn’t you know it, most of their songs are about L-O-V-E and not the waifish self-pitying kind proffered by pretty-boy sad-sacks like Conor Oberst and his ilk, either. Jenny Lewis and company deal in themes that you might think beyond the ken of callow twentysomethings – not only betrayal, guilt (“I Never”) and vengeance (“Love and War”), but also monogamy and even “If I get pregnant I guess I’ll just have the baby.”
All of which might be fairly routine if Lewis wasn’t such a clever lyricist, such a superior chronicler of all the self-doubt, fear and wonder that accompany true love and longing. Songs like the country-flavored title track and “The Absence of God” are sly, eloquent snapshots of young love undergirded by melodic instincts and song smarts most bands would kill to possess. And don’t think the big-budget production doesn’t help – in fact, it brings forth the sheer physical beauty of Lewis’s clarion alto and the newfound pop reach of the group’s meticulous arrangements in ways that independent labels can’t afford. Opener “It’s A Hit” pulls out all of the tricks in the bag – horn charts, pedal steel, handclaps, glockenspiel, the works – for a sardonic anti-war ditty that’s catchier and more effective than most. “Any chimp can play human for a day / And use his opposable thumbs to iron his uniform / And run for office on election day / And fancy himself a real decision maker,” sings Lewis in a voice as gorgeous as it is withering and ironic, her words enunciated with such clarity and deadpan focus that you’ll have no doubt who she’s talking about and how she feels about him. Like few records of the past several years, major or indie, “More Adventurous” captures a band both confident enough not to suppress their immaculate, accessible song-craft and smart enough to give those songs the big-league treatment they deserve. If it’s a hit, it’ll be a victory for a mass audience keen enough to know great music when they hear it, whether indie purists believe so or not.
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