Tilly and the Wall are full-time, professional young people. They’re Dawson’s Creek as a band: Omaha pals of the Bright Eyes crew, armed to the teeth with the kind of youth it takes to sing pretty songs about “singing pretty songs about love.” (They’ve also got a tap dancer instead of a drummer, which is a better idea than you’d think.) Most of their songs are concerned with how intensely they feel everything—first-person-plural manifestos about love and action and stuff. “Let’s get wild, wild, wild,” they whoop. “Let’s rejoice. I wanna hear that fucking noise.”
What youth youth youth and wild wild wild mostly translate to here is sex sex sex and its attendant confusion. The voices of one boy and two girls grope nervously at each other, either in unison or on totally different pages at least as often as they’re actually in harmony. They chop at their instruments and stomp on the floor, custom-trimming Shania melodies and Madonna lyrics they’ve heard on the radio into homemade hymns to universal making out. And the speaking-for-the-fake-ID-generation act is a lot less grating than it might be, mostly because they sound like they actually are high on hormones.