Pitchfork

Here's a little known fact: rock critics, like physicists, biologists, and food scientists, are perennially seeking theories to institute order upon the chaotic world around them. Every musical scribe aspires to create something as elegant as Scott Copperwood's historic The Inevitability of the Concept Album or Patrick Reilly's famous Cleavage + Low Neckline = HUGE Country Music Sales study. Today, as a Pitchfork Exclusive!, I'm going to let you in on my most-valued personal theoretical creation: the Bands-in-Love Axiom.

The Bands-in-Love Axiom is a concept more effectively shown than described. The First Couple of Indie Rock, Kim Gordon and Thurston Moore, flaunted it with the heavenly harmonies of "Cotton Crown," though it rarely applied after that. Low's Alan Sparhawk and Mimi Parker show that Mormons can do it, too, but often keep it restrained under their slowcore blanket. Caithlin de Marrais and Kyle Fischer of Rainer Maria tapped into it occasionally on their first two albums, but gave it up to try to be a low-rent My Bloody Valentine on A Better Version of Me. Still, for a long time, "Tinfoil," off of Rainer's first album served as the linchpin of my theory; the opening "God-DAMMIT!!!" the vocal harmony equivalent of love's beautiful train wreck.

But then last spring, I stumbled upon a tiny little band named the Mates of State in San Francisco. And lo, my theory was made flesh. The Mates stripped away all those superfluous band members not involved in the central relationship, leaving just two people thoroughly infatuated with each other. Kori Gardner played her vintage Yamaha organ, Jason Hammel banged his drums, and both sang, not just together, but to each other, their eyes locked onstage in what my friend described best as "The Love Gaze." Their debut album, My Solo Project captured this vibe surprisingly well, with lines like, "I color the sky with you/ I let you choose the blue," warming the cockles of even the most steely-hearted listener.

Our Constant Concern, the band's first album for Polyvinyl Records, promised that the duo was sticking to the same tight formula, causing me to rub my hands in mad scientist-like anticipation of more support for my theory. But alas, it was not to be: the musical spark is gone! And furthermore, things are apparently still all holding hands and eskimo kisses for Kori and Jason, considering the occurrence of their marriage between albums. My theory, what's happened to my beautiful theory?!

It's actually really hard to put a finger on what isn't clicking this time out for the Mates, as one would think a two-person band couldn't adjust their sound too dramatically. One possible culprit is the general slowing of the material; by my count a good six of ten tracks stroll along at a tempo best described as "mid." Easing off the gas pedal isn't always a bad thing, but here it seems to drain a good portion of the energy the band showed previously.

Furthermore, this time around Gardner seems to be using a greater variety of the organ's effects, rather than focusing upon the guitarish sound of My Solo Project (I want so badly not to mention Quasi, but think Quasi). The strategic change allows us to sample the keyboard's seemingly endless repertoire, such as the xylophone/steel drum sound and a brilliantly fake-sounding brass synthesizer. But without the fuzzy crunch and Hammond-esque bass of the distorted setting, the new songs sound, well, a lot like it's only two people playing.

Most traumatic of all, however, is the Mates' movement away from the fantastic pseudo-harmonies of earlier work. On songs like "La'Hov" and "Throw Down" from the first album, Gardner and Hammel each belted out vocal parts that wrapped around each other in a way far from technically perfect, and thrillingly so. The harmonies on Our Constant Concern-- tracks like "10 Years Later" and "Girls Singing"-- are far less eccentric and less vibrant, sometimes resorting to mere unison singing.

The old magic pops up here and there, as in the enjoyably ridiculous Graceland-like vocal intro to "Quit Doin' It" and the sugar-high two minutes of "Halves and Have-Nots." But these brief flashes, even on a thirty-minute album, do little to keep the dreaded sophomore slump virus from hitting Our Constant Concern. Perhaps, sadly, the Band-in-Love Axiom is only good for one great album per act. Until next time, though, the romanticist in me will hope otherwise. C'mon, guys, do it for my theory.