“Getting Killed” is NYC rock band Geese’s fourth studio album in which they show off their expertise and comfort not only with noise, but also their own sound. The Geese sound is distinct: cacophonous, like driving a car filled with metal down a bumpy road. It is loud, scratchy, and right up against your ear in a way that feels very intimate. Producing such an effect is only possible through the immense control frontman Cameron Winter has, not only over musical production, but also narrative.
Vocally, think heroin-affiliated warble talent, immediately reminiscent of G. Love’s timbre and (approaching) Bob Dylan’s rhythmic twang. The Winter sound is raw and catching, the vocal equivalent of a guy at the end of his rope. Partial to the occasional guttural yell as in the opening track “Trinidad,” Geese maintains a visceral soundscape. Characteristic of the Geese sound is the deployment of instruments abnormal to the rock genre: Shakers, bongos, pots, and pans are continually emphasized in tracks such as “Cobra,” “Getting Killed,” and “100 Horses,” creating songs that sound almost tropical in their percussion, which adds a quirk to the album’s overall ambience. This scratchy, discordant, garage sound, perceived as try-hard by some of my peers and refreshing by others, arguably belongs to a particular taste. Personally, I think this album is a mixed bag in accomplishing being gritty, intelligent, and esoteric: Cameron Winter often employs very intimate lyricism paired with cluttered instrumentals that personalize his sound, yet admittedly there are moments where the depth seems superficial. But those lyrics? Let’s talk.
A Wild Ride
Winter, the primary songwriter, occupies a clear narrative position in his songwriting: All but one of the tracks on this album are written in first person, a formal choice which immediately revives the dying art of concept albums. “Trinidad” begins with a cry, an anecdote in which the speaker’s life is unexpectedly exploded via a weapon that comes with a perilous countdown, and yet, he will continue to drive away in this vehicle set to be destroyed. Following quite the optimistic beginning, “Cobra” marks a stark tone shift wherein instead of wailing about the destruction of his family, Winter seems to travel back in time to the emotions preceding destruction such as a desire to escape, which are juxtaposed with an upbeat melody and bright keys: “Baby, let me dance away forever and ever, yeah.”
Here, Winter’s lover “can make the cobras dance / But not me, yeah,” a metaphorical manner of asserting hidden independence and resistance to the whirlpool of this relationship. The title track comes in soon after, shooting the energy up through a gritty guitar vein to release a cathartic cry: the feeling of being trapped and rampaged. This sentiment is bolstered by Winter’s ability to commit vocally: “I’m trying to talk over everybody in the world / I can’t even taste my own tears.” A mainstay in this album is commitment, something even Pitchfork asserts: “This is anxious, fragmented music as liable to erupt in a paranoid shriek as a bald declaration of love,” Sam Sodomsky writes. Winter, his acutely talented percussionist Max Bassin, Emily Green on guitar, and Dominic DiGesu on bass succeed in this album, if nothing else, at dedication, strange and knowing.
The second half of the album is largely (but not entirely) more sentimental, with tracks such as “Half Real” defending the truth and purity of a love passed (in such a raw way that I believe anybody mourning a love should give it a try), even if it is only he who regards it as such and, “Like a sailor in a big green boat / You can be free / You can be free and still come home tonight” (“Au Pays Du Cocaine”). This half of the album clarifies its subject, which is a relationship, romantic or otherwise, gone to shit, which Winter explains does not imply that it is to be regretted or denied. A painful, raw record, “Getting Killed” functions as both an acquired taste and an immediate resonance.
Isabella Canizares-Bidwa can be reached at icanizaresbi@wesleyan.edu.
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