Fat Cat's reissue of the first two Animal Collective releases on one double-disc should not only come as a pleasant surprise to those who discovered the group with this year's excellent Here Comes The Indian, but should also raise the question why it took almost 4 years for the Brooklyn-based project to be courted by a large label. Created by and originally credited to only two Animal Collective members, Spirit They've Gone, Spirit They've Vanished was self-released on Animal Records in 2000.
The record stands as an entirely cohesive and mature statement from an act with a truly unique sensibility. Avey Tare and Panda Bear, as the duo calls themselves, concoct a potent blend of yesterday-and-today pop, primitive avant-garde-isms and accomplished electronic trickery, with a range of influences almost as surprising as the fact that it all works. The disc begins with "Spirit They've Vanished," an early taste of the extremes to which the Collective travels. The track is organized around a loop of electronic squeal, glitch-laden and slowly modulated as the song progresses. Avey Tare's high, quasi-theatrical singing carves its way through the irregular backing, resulting in something like Bowie singing over a Fennesz track. The second song, "April and the Phantom," introduces the sound that will dominate the majority of Spirit in which the vocals' deceptively simple pop hooks (still sounding Bowie or Barrett) are augmented by viciously strummed acoustic lines, psychedelic synth bits, and tight, sometimes tribal snaring. The song also foregrounds a degree of unpredictability that will continue throughout the disc. Noise bursts frequently interrupt the melody and the seductive vocals often turn to piercing screams; the song's structure is also deceptive with established hooks or rhythms mutating swiftly into rich new song-forms without warning. While listening, I was often pleasantly surprised to find that the same six-minute song was still playing when I was sure two more had already passed.
A thoroughly psychedelic atmosphere exists throughout all Animal Collective music, however bound by a pop sensibility and the healthy abandon of noise-rock's influence. Comparisons could be made to the pastoral skronk of friends Black Dice, though the Collective's palpable pop conviction sets them apart. Spirit's closer, the epic "Alvin Row," provides ample evidence, as all screaming and noisy electronic tweaking is kept to drastic low, leaving gorgeous organ and piano lines to fill the spaces between Tare's vocals, at their best here. Still somewhat in the Bowie/Barrett vein, the singing begins to carve its own niche in these final seven minutes, to assert itself as a voice that is uniquely frightening, endearing, and melancholic, a bit like a forest creature. Sadly, Danse Manatee is not as cohesive or as instantly appealing as its predecessor, though it does show the Collective moving in new directions, later brought to maturity on Here Comes the Indian. Most songs feature a fragmented, increasingly electronic foundation, some sounding more like studio experiments than arranged pieces. Remnants of Spirit's psychedelic pop are present in the blissful "Essplode," and the droning "Ahhh Good Country," but most songs are obscured by experimental leanings that will be better integrated in later efforts. Regardless, this double-disc is a welcome introduction for new fans (if only for Spirit), and is a must-have for anyone indoctrinated by this prolific act's recent output.
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