Pitchfork

I tore the shrinkwrap off this album and the smell of dandelions spilled out. Dandelions, and breezy windfalls. My knees got weak from the aroma, the sense of a smart man writing what was on his mind, and not being so cynical that he doused his thoughts in the petals of harmony. Instead, he doused his music in stories. They could be real, they could be fake, but you don't know for sure because they're just too vague for interpretation, and you don't wanna project your own shit onto music this nice, this universal. You don't wanna dump your own problems onto it. This music is about feelings-- not emotions, feelings-- like the sixth sense you get when summer's about to break, when the mail carrier's about to deliver a package to your door, when someone's about to break your heart but it's okay 'cause Life. Is. Awesome.

The Long Winters are a wholly life-affirming band, helmed by acclaimed Seattle songwriter John Roderick. He's backed by drummer Michael Shilling, bassist Eric Corson, and former Harvey Danger vocalist/keyboardist Sean Nelson-- his regular boys. Oh, and a 26-person ensemble of violinists, tamborinists, and producers, including Chris Walla and Peter Buck. You get the feeling that, during the taping of this album, Long Winters, et al. were flipping somersaults in the studio, or smooshed all together like moppets. You feel as if they are screaming even when they're not, because they are taking gigantic breaths, letting air fill their guts full.

It's just straight rock and roll, really, and I mean really straight rock and roll. There's a tinge of folk, a tiny, tiny dash of mid-level Beatles/Kinks...it has the same wildflower fragrance as 120 Minutes circa 1991. R.E.M.? World Party? "Sowing the Seeds of Love"?! Anything is possible. And here, "anything" is the elimination of hippie-ness in music that sounds so wholly optimistic.

It's all in the harmonies. Sure there's unmitigated rosy joy blossoming from every boppy keyboard hinge, a gleaming simplicity that's neither sentimental nor under-thought, but makes you feel so good is Roderick's sometimes-craggy, mostly regular-guy yelp, as it sweetly rubs up against Nelson's familiar tweet ("familiar" as in Harvey Danger's "Flagpole Sitta", which you may or may not recall blasting from every college dorm a few years ago). Crashing waves of distortion cut out to reveal a spry orchestra of stringed instruments, ebbing and flowing as the pair sing, "I'm countin' on you to throw more than shapes!"

When I Pretend to Fall is not without imperfections; for one, it's a little too glossy, but then again, I'm used to recordings where people jam up their laptop outlets with dirty rags dipped in ether and Vaseline. One grave misstep is the album's closer, "Nora", which is horribly heavy on the cymbal and cheesy with its guitar solo. Roderick also sings the finale in an unbecoming, monotonous drawl, a shame of a parting impression since he's best when he's skipping around the scales like a lop rabbit.

Teeming with the "nice" and major-key action, Long Winters can at times get a little barfy. But time is on there side, as right now the sun is out, life is rad, and their sometimes too-simple songs are nothing if not solid. What the fuck, I can dig it.