By Steve Weinstein
By Bryan Bierman
By Lindsey Rhoades
By Chaz Kangas
By Ben Westhoff and Sarah Purkrabek
By Jena Ardell
By Jesse Sendejas Jr.
By Katherine Turman
No, local slump-spotters, this isn't the Yeahs' Room on Fire. Far from it. The first full-length, Fever to Tell, lined up show-tooled thunderclaps. "Maps," its hit ballad, wasn't this comfortable in its skinthe pounded beat and itchy Zinnerisms were barely contained. In this surefootedand still pleasure-centeredleap, the crew rises above the storm clouds, laying them bare. The Yeahs have circled back, in some small way, to their beginnings, when Nick and Karen played together with an acoustic guitar. Until now their sound has been breakthrough, the way Castro contends that the Revolution is ongoing. Paradoxically, it is: He fights to maintain power. And the Yeahs could've kept erupting. Instead, they've entered a rewarding new paradox: turning those eruptions inside out.
Karen's crypto-candid lyrics, inevitable but not therefore unmoving day-after assessments, pile on the contradictions: "Lies and love"; "We're just another part of you"; "It's cold under the blanket"; "Sleep with the light on"; "Run away, you want it"; "Good things happen in bad towns." But she's grasping at something softer, something larger. In "The Sweets," a flawlessly executed reconstruction of a ramshackle acoustic reverie, she muses on a spark, telescoping the (transformative? biblical?) possibilities: "If we meet again, meet and meet and meet and meet again." "Cheated Hearts" chimes as if it caught an emo dart in the neck, but the band's adrenaline spikes partway through, wiping away Karen's ambivalence: "Sometimes I think that I'm bigger than the sound," she chants, whipping her voice around until a frenzied Zinner barrels in sounding like nothing so much as an extension of the singer, and an affirmation of the band.
The secret is that they're all sound, dissociated from convention: jigsaw Chase, shape-shift Zinner, sweet spazz O. And though they're subdued through much of this album, they're as elastic as always. Rubber bands hold things together as well as they careen across the room. Karen takes the most liberties here, letting off her lyrics in wisps, shouts, asides, dull roarsanything outside the traditional range, outside the space a singer would usually inhabit and inflect. (The space where, say, Gossip's Beth Ditto has so fruitfully grown.) She dances over the songs in a cutting, nasal voice that is impossible to ignore but easy to likeit sounds, in its weird way, completely natural. Her tentative murmur on "Maps" has given way to an energy-packed tone. Ballad shapes, Karen now realizes, call for no one timbre.
Zinner and Chase, as always, are right there with her. The most fiery track here, rockabilly reduction "Mysteries," finds Karen lazily slathering herself over the double-time jumpproof that their chemistry has zoomed past the exploding lab stage. At their most butteryBeck-like "Gold Lion," meticulous build-to-noise "Way Out"the Yeahs pop like Jiffy. At their most melodramaticvintage indie yelp "Warrior"they sound like a sweet '90s memory. And then there are the songs nobody else could come up with, not even the Yeahs of last album: "Phenomena," the most rap-savvy rock song ever to eschew rhymes, and "Honeybear," a multi-part soundtrack to somersaults. And so we meet again, meet and meet and meet and meet again.