There’s something not quite right about Classic Connection. That’s not meant to be a criticism – in fact, the album’s delicate derangement is its great strength. It’s both endearing and gross, like a wide-eyed toddler covering themselves in handfuls of mud.
It’s all form versus function, ego versus id, surface versus subtext. There’s always two things happening at the same time. A song like When I Say Jimpy marries a flat, neutered delivery with the most polished chord progressions this side of Mac DeMarco’s Salad Days. It’s at once pop and pop’s very opposite: the record Taylor Swift might make after spending four years dropping acid in the desert.
Sure, the very nature of the thing means it’s a thrilling, manic mess – but who cares? When did we start confusing predictability with integrity? Scooter Pants is like an episode of Playschool hosted by Stephen Malkmus, and Get Away is a lurching, sparkle-soaked fever dream. Not one song sounds like the one that preceded it.Classic Connection doesn’t end so much as it advances onto the next plane. One minute it’s here and the next it’s gone, reeking of absinthe and staggering towards heaven.
By Joseph Earp
