Spring Break
Weightlifters exercise independence
Julian Williams, Contributing Writer, jwilliams@smu.edu
Issue date: 9/11/07 Section: Entertainment
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Something about being independent and signed to a major label just doesn't fit. At times I wonder why Death Cab for Cutie (Atlantic Records) is referred to as "indie." I expel a pensive groan of despair, wondering why Rilo Kiley or Built To Spill (Warner Bros. Records) are still referred to as "indie."
Not only is this angst-filled confusion no good for my general well-being, it's no good for a generation of absent-minded indie kids who can't differentiate true independent music from fashionable big business.
But if ever there was a band, or man, needed to exemplify what independent really is, Adam McLaughlin aka Weightlifters does. Formally a member of the Idle Wilds, a stagnant power-pop outfit from the mid 90s, the ex-bassist embodies indie: self-produced, unsigned and craving a sale or two.
By his lonesome but with a dash of instrumental aid from select dilettantes and dabblers, McLaughlin pumps out a short strand of actual independent music, free from domineering production teams in a small studio that he built. That's so indie.
All too often, we listen to these major label, mega-super indie moguls and forget what "indie" actually means. Flowing gently from ear to ear like an indiscrete, newer-age fusion of the Beach Boys (post Brian Wilson) and The Byrds ("Mr. Tambourine Man" and "Turn, Turn, Turn"), The Weightlifters' twee-pop tonality surprises, allowing predisposed notions of low quality, under-produced indie EPs to sink into the many soft folds of layered guitars that envelope any light-hearted indie lover.
Somber like a child's music-box lullaby fading into its final seconds, "The Last of the Sunday Drivers" - vocally and musically - is reminiscent of a less cynical Elliott Smith. "Oblivion Shines" is pure optimism, the antithesis of Smith's "Memory Line," a depressing lyric of social ostracism and inevitable conformity.
"Undefined" is your basic, all-too-typical homage to individuality. The irony? It's vibrant and airy with a touch of twang, repetitive and predictable, tackling the ever-present indie motif of (pshh) individuality. Yet and still, I'd prefer The Weightlifters' set over a Rilo Kiley and Coldplay mash up in an oversold amphitheater any day. When your live equipment budget exceeds a couple hundred thousand, the "indie" factor seems lost.
In all, "Last of the Sunday Drivers" is good old American blood, sweat and tears hard at work, toiling in homemade studios and releasing low-volume extended plays for those fortunate enough to stumble upon them.
Our nation touts independence on its sleeve and so do The Weightlifters, molding together the best, most "indie" music I've come across in some time.
Not only is this angst-filled confusion no good for my general well-being, it's no good for a generation of absent-minded indie kids who can't differentiate true independent music from fashionable big business.
But if ever there was a band, or man, needed to exemplify what independent really is, Adam McLaughlin aka Weightlifters does. Formally a member of the Idle Wilds, a stagnant power-pop outfit from the mid 90s, the ex-bassist embodies indie: self-produced, unsigned and craving a sale or two.
By his lonesome but with a dash of instrumental aid from select dilettantes and dabblers, McLaughlin pumps out a short strand of actual independent music, free from domineering production teams in a small studio that he built. That's so indie.
All too often, we listen to these major label, mega-super indie moguls and forget what "indie" actually means. Flowing gently from ear to ear like an indiscrete, newer-age fusion of the Beach Boys (post Brian Wilson) and The Byrds ("Mr. Tambourine Man" and "Turn, Turn, Turn"), The Weightlifters' twee-pop tonality surprises, allowing predisposed notions of low quality, under-produced indie EPs to sink into the many soft folds of layered guitars that envelope any light-hearted indie lover.
Somber like a child's music-box lullaby fading into its final seconds, "The Last of the Sunday Drivers" - vocally and musically - is reminiscent of a less cynical Elliott Smith. "Oblivion Shines" is pure optimism, the antithesis of Smith's "Memory Line," a depressing lyric of social ostracism and inevitable conformity.
"Undefined" is your basic, all-too-typical homage to individuality. The irony? It's vibrant and airy with a touch of twang, repetitive and predictable, tackling the ever-present indie motif of (pshh) individuality. Yet and still, I'd prefer The Weightlifters' set over a Rilo Kiley and Coldplay mash up in an oversold amphitheater any day. When your live equipment budget exceeds a couple hundred thousand, the "indie" factor seems lost.
In all, "Last of the Sunday Drivers" is good old American blood, sweat and tears hard at work, toiling in homemade studios and releasing low-volume extended plays for those fortunate enough to stumble upon them.
Our nation touts independence on its sleeve and so do The Weightlifters, molding together the best, most "indie" music I've come across in some time.
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