Pitchfork

"Americana" is a word frequently applied to music that somehow feels connected to traditional Appalachian folk, blues, and country, genres we tend to think of as quintessentially American. It seems, though, that in the past half-century, the essence of American-ness has changed-- or rather, expanded-- to the point where the word Americana only captures a tiny part of what makes American life and culture distinctive. I'm not suggesting that we redefine a semi-useful critical tag, but I'd like to posit that the Caribbean's music is a sort of Americana, albeit a different sort than we're used to.

The simple fact is that in 50 years, the stuff that this band sings about-- office supplies, airport security, long-distance correspondence, and dayjob malaise-- will likely be more central to American life than coal mining, farming, and church. That's if they're not already. Songs about crime, another staple of Americana, will probably still resonate far and wide, and the Caribbean simply updates that, from murder ballads to small-time drug production and white-collar dishonesty.

The D.C. band wraps its tales of modern life in a musical cocktail that arranges piles of instruments into a constantly shifting mix. Guitars, marimbas, beatboxes, banjos, drums, violins, and accordions share air with turntables, radios and samplers, which add a touch of modern glitch to the otherwise smooth, spacious arrangements. Producer Chad Clark keeps all these elements from stepping on each other, giving the band a roomy sound that comes across like an alternate-universe Death Cab. Michael Kentoff's soft, Ira Kaplan-ish vocals wander through these elements like one person through a towering city, as if awed by everything they see and hoping not to get lost.

This fact and the band's singularly odd way with lyrics make Plastic Explosives nearly impossible to sing along to-- none of the songs are arranged in convenient verse-chorus-verse packages, instead flowing from thought to thought in mostly complete sentences. It can get awkward at times-- try putting a melody to "As we ripped out our networks, I kept it in mind: Save the mirror or else pretty soon you'll find you can't see/ You can't hear" and see how far you get. Kentoff's lyrics are at their best on "The Truth Hurts Jamie Green", which that tells the story of a girl adrift with just a few fractured images, the best being the last: "A voice assumed buried rang on another line."

The songs here have an uncanny flow from one to the next, to the point where they feel indelibly joined, a feeling heightened by the little sketchy instrumentals that cushion them from each other like sonic packing peanuts. After three albums and a couple of EPs, the Caribbean sound at home in this strange little white-collar rock place they've built for themselves. It's the folk music of the new American service economy.