Word: bassed
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...similar fashion, “Here Today, Gone Tomorrow,” marks the band’s sole instance of musical experimentation. In a departure from the soft rock which defines much of the rest of the album, this track is marked by a heavier bass line and more reverb. Much like the rest of the album, however, the lyrics still leave a little to be desired—“You’re all talk and nothing to say / We don’t want, don’t want what you’re giving...
...aren’t quite Merriweather’s thing, nor do they need to be. Standout track “Impossible” is proof enough that Merriweather doesn’t need to say anything particularly compelling to craft a memorable soul-pop number. A playfully hypnotic bass line, punctuating guitar and gratuitous strings give the cliché chorus—“There ain’t nothing, nothing / Nothing impossible for your love”—a renewed immediacy...
...drums pulse under electronica-influenced rim clicks and the determined picking of the guitar line. This drum track is instantly reminiscent of the Dodos and the National, bands that have pioneered the now-popular “big drum” sound pervasive throughout much of indie rock. The bass is melodic, driving the song as much as the guitar. Due to their spaced-out reverb and ethereal interval, the constantly harmonized vocals are reminiscent of Fleet Foxes. The song is comprised of carefully constructed parts that build, then segue seamlessly, always driven by the throbbing drums and the wandering...
...begins singing the melody before the other drapes a gauzy harmony on top. The opening is enchanting enough to repeat for another three minutes, but Local Natives refuse to rest on their laurels. Instead, the song swings into a taut rock groove with punchy electric guitars and a gurgling bass. The drums cut in and out, adding tension and release at the perfect moments and then letting the track build slowly upon itself with each soaring harmony before the ultimate release of blazing guitar and fist pumping high notes. The joyful climax of its chorus, worthy of Arcade Fire...
...already reserved my ticket for Pachanga, the greatest dance party of the year—a student newspaper editorial calls it “moderated madness” and likens it to tribal rituals. But often we sit in his below-ground room and turn the lights off, the bass up loud: me sitting on the couch, Rubin on piano, Dave drumming with something or another, me talking about how they’re going to make it big someday, bigger even than NBA stardom. Or else we’ll go to a room somewhere in the castle where...