Pitchfork

When a rosy-faced tot tumbles off a seesaw, whacking his precious head on the playground turf, each subsequent moment is heavy with the threat of total apocalypse: his face will start to crumple, tiny pink mouth stretching open, eyes fluttering and nostrils rearing, sticky fingers clamping down on blades of grass. Onlookers will pause in thick silence, uneasy, leaning forward just a bit, waiting to see if what follows is a spit-riddled giggle or a belly-flipping scream. Stellastarr frontman Shawn Christensen's voice has come to exist in that exact same purgatory, his deep, gut-borne howl flitting effortlessly from cautious whisper to full-on bellow, sometimes sinister, sometimes loving, always pulsing with the threat of complete breakdown. The unpredictability of the situation is what makes it impossible; the prickly volatility is what makes it riveting.

Stellastarr is the Brooklyn-born band's first full-length (duly preceded by 2002's three-song Somewhere Across Forever EP) and, with a dressed-in-black swagger reminiscent of fellow New York based art-punks Television and vocals reminiscent of 70s David Byrne, it's an apt portrait of what New York City has always been stupidly good at generating: thorny post-punk guitars, wild, undulating vocals, and plenty of cigarette-enhanced Lou Reed sneers. Boston enters the picture as well: The Pixies serve as one of Stellastarr's more obvious parent figures; the hollow boy/girl vocal exchanges on "Jenny" are classic Francis/Deal. Add this to the fact that this record was produced by Boston-based producer Tim O'Heir, who manned the decks for so many of the city's alterna-rock icons (Morphine, Juliana Hatfield, Dinosaur Jr.), and it's not too difficult to see how that early 90s college-rock aura could have seeped into these songs.

The band is young, though, and this being their debut album, they have some growing to do. Their most noticeable weakness is the blatancy of their influences-- an easily acquitted misgiving, considering the disc's strengths. In backing up Christensen's caterwauling, bassist Amanda Tannen, guitarist Michael Jurin, and drummer/keyboardist Arthur Kremer nobly transcend most art-school clichés (admirable, with three Pratt alumni present), pushing out dark, danceable new-wave that wiggles-in-neon like it's 1985. Opener "In the Walls" opens harmlessly enough, teaming pulsing video-game synths with Christensen's blank, creepy chanting; seconds later, the band kicks up and Christensen releases his open-mouthed howl, soaking the room with huge, dramatic screams.

The breathless, guitar-driven "Jenny" is the perfect opportunity to holler "Jenny!" as much as you ever wanted, a sinister homage to being screwed and screwed-up that showcases Christensen's peaceable-one-second, crackers-the-next vocal stylings (dude says "motherfucker" like he really means it!). The bouncing, elastic "My Coco" is tough to follow, and Stellastarr starts to sag a bit in the middle before winding down, unceremoniously, with "Pulp Song", a track that-- cleverly?-- sounds kinda like a Pulp song. Stellastarr's bold, cinematic sprawl demands a certain kind of tolerance, and might require a few listens before you're able to fully adjust to its dramatics, but Christensen is, in the end, an oddly convincing leader, and, if nothing else, you'll at least be stuck to your headphones trying to guess his next move.