Only deaf people and republicans failed to fall for Jenny Lewis after receiving her duet with Death Cab cutie Ben Gibbard on "We Will Be Silouettes". The unexpected aftermath of such a profitable detonation propelled The Postal Service well beyond the orbits of wealth, allowing the licensing department at Sub Pop records to work from huts on the hot sands of Owahu Hawaii. You might have also rubbed out one to Lewis's solo serenade Rabbit Fur Coat, which Conor Oberst released on Team Love, which featured appetizing audio aid from Wednesday and her sister Wednesday Addams aka The Watson Twins.
With a desire like grinding jaws crunching raw tooth on the sixth night of a wicked strawberry quick binge, you will most certainly want to switch off all overhead illumination and electrify your life's darkness with Rilo Kiley's major label debut Under The Blacklight, a snazzy thrill ride that works it like six foot scissor legs in vinyl boots with zippers made of 100% "all right."
Under The Blacklight is an atomic jug of sugar lemonade with plenty of ice. This reactionary bump is funky, glamorous and hip enough to make my freak parents bang out a kid brother for me to whoop senseless just to introduce him to how shitty life being my brother would be. Such a melt of essential cool is like Fleetwood Mac without the incestuous sex orgies atop mountains of powdered substances, wildly skipping down a highway with The Cars.
Sex pours out of "The Moneymaker" more bodacious than a prime time beer commercial on Sunday night. Bulging breasts barely entombed in a golden shoestrings are splashed in slow motion with a deluge of "this brand" beer, the coolest brew in "your town."
"Breakin Up" makes me want to get into a relationship with anyone, I don't care, I don't care, you right there, you'll do, let's do it, wait, things aren't working out, we're "Breakin Up"! And then I'd crank this song up really loud and stand with a smile. Donna Summer's hairdo really likes this one too, so does Cheech's mustache.
"Smoke Detector" reminds me to make a play list on my iTunes of Exile In Guyville and to scan my external hard drive for them old Juliana Hatfield joints, with or without "The Three." This is the aftermath of when Bettie Serveert were drugged at a psychedelic scam party hosted by Jefferson Airplane.
The closing track "Give A Little Love" flashes back to that technical savvy electrolysis Jimmy Tamborello (The Postal Service, Dntel) inserted onto 2004's More Adventurous, where Lewis also split songwriting duties with former Salute Your Shorts rascal Blake Bennett. On this album however, it is mainly the ink of Lewis's pen responsible for scripting this flourishing score.
Lewis is flawless, not a scar on her. In snooping my beak up her back story I felt like a nibbling rat district attorney scouring overflowing cans of discarded trash in hopes of discovering a scrap of negative beef for the mouths of the hungry public. But that search will continue to be fruitless, a very profitable prediction indeed. Maybe she'll fall down a flight of stairs and unknowingly land on an elderly man killing him instantly. Or maybe she'll continue to be worthy of all the praise, attention, and devotion that the world effortlessly showers her with. Where was all of this love at the debut weekend of Troop Beverly Hills?