Anybody like The Wrens?

Let me come out of the gate stating the obvious: The summer of 1996 was a fucking long time ago. I was fresh out of high school then, living with my parents in the outlying suburbs of Minneapolis, trying to craft an embryonic Pitchfork into something respectable without any prior writing experience. In the throes of that disgustingly humid, buggy summer in which it seemed I would one day die as I'd lived-- navigating the road construction obstacle course on Hwy 5 and despising an oppressive day job, yet forever hopeful of some distant, supernatural delivery-- Secaucus was sunwarmed bliss, the infinite pleasure zone I couldn't stop hitting.

Bursting immediately at its seams with the serrated dual guitar blast of "Yellow Number Three" and "Built in Girls"' steam-engine roar, Secaucus welcomes with a warm immediacy rare in even the most revered pop treasures, and a density whose every layer hides another secret synth melody, jagged hook or vocal harmony. The depth of realization in this record is unparalleled: every angle is perfected. Its surplus of pristine pop hooks and energetic discharge rivals the best of Built to Spill, Guided by Voices, Pavement, or any other heralded indie rock band, and tracks like the anthemic, accelerating "I've Made Enough Friends", the wistful malaise of "Won't Get Too Far", the hurtling "Surprise, Honeycomb", and the emotive high-school slowdance number "Jane Fakes a Hug" reveal proof in spades: Beyond their euphoric harmonies, melodic rapture, and marblemouthed vocals lie some of the greatest lyrics the genre's seen yet. Respectively, these songs contain tales of a nationwide murder rampage ("Being good made me burst/ The killing got worse/ It almost got fun"), a lovestruck abandonment of social lives ("A rush of wonder/ This charm we're under might last/ Are we too hoping/ Our years are showing and fast"), a hopeless high school graduate who fears he won't live up to his father's achievements ("I can't believe I'm grown/ None of my friends live at home/ Not since fall"), and the harrowing play-by-play of a brutal divorce ("Our oaths, our realty, a good job, a husband/ A husband or what/ Christ, Jane, I'm not/ I never was").

But as long ago as all of that was for me, for The Wrens, it's been an eternity. The band always made themselves accessible via Internet, and as the years passed, I would frequently email to wonder when a follow-up was due-- and even as I knew they had respectable careers and families, I didn't expect it would take seven years to see release. I also hadn't known that, at the height of their 1996 U.S. tour, all promotion for Secaucus was, allegedly, pulled in a huff by Grass Records labelhead Alan Melzter when the band dared question a million-dollar contract he'd tried to strongarm them into signing. It was just another in a long string of sloppy breakups that would eventually sour the band on the music industry. After endless reassurances that their third album would be out "in a few months, we promise," hope began to fade that the record would ever see light of day at all. Then came word that they had actually finished the record, and-- to celebrate and prevent them from further second-guessing-- were holding a party to destroy the master tapes.

The package finally arrived from the band themselves: an advance, unmastered CD-R labeled The Meadowlands with makeshift artwork and tentative song titles. Excitedly, I threw it into the car stereo, and waited. Waiting. Waiting. What the fuck happened to these guys? It had been seven years, sure-- no one was expecting anything as powerful as Secaucus from middle-agers, but to say The Wrens had mellowed would almost be a joke: There was little trace of the youthful, resonant joy or ecstatic intensity of Secaucus. This was a completely different band. These Wrens were defeated, miserable, hopeless, and-- in their own words-- exhausted.

Disappointed, I shelved the disc and stubbornly refused to listen to the final pressing, even after it arrived at the Pitchfork P.O. box loving wrapped in Tiffany-blue ribbon and paper. Which was about when everyone I knew began raving. People were stunned at my reaction: Surely we'd just heard different albums? And we had, but upon finally listening to the finished version after heavy persuasion from friends, it began to make more sense. This was a completely different band, defeated, miserable, and exhausted, absolutely, but not hopeless. Defying the unwritten rule that any band breaking a five-plus year hiatus must return lethargic and sapped of inspiration before retreating again to obscurity, here The Wrens prove themselves even more shockingly relevant than before-- they have survived extinction, and, fully inspired, they are telling the tale: The Meadowlands is a crushing confessional, documenting every disappointment of the past seven years, every difficult breakup, every bad gig.

If The Wrens were lyrically powerful when writing from third-person perspectives about trivial fantasies on Secaucus, they're devastating delivering their own personal failures, hardships and resignations. The breakup tracks are the least of it, and even those are masochistically autobiographical with recurring characters and story arcs bridging songs. "She Sends Kisses" opens on an acoustic strum and reflective accordion, increasingly piling on layers of instrumentation (electric guitar, drums, piano, vocal harmonies) while Charles Bissell reflectively croons, "A sophomore at Brown/ She worked lost and found/ I put your face on her all year." "Ex-Girl Collection" is upbeat on the surface and conflict beneath: "Ann slams in/ Another lightning round begins.../ 'Charles, I found out/ Wipe that smile off your mouth/ I think it's tell-me time.'" "13 Months in 6 Minutes" is somber and damp-eyed, dewy guitars drenched in wet reverb and whispered vocals at the end of a relationship: "I'm a footnote at best/ I envy who comes next."

But the first-hand accounts of the band's own struggles are what really hit hard, particularly for listeners who've waited the full seven years or who have intimate familiarity with similar situations. "Everyone Choose Sides"-- backed by crusty guitar fighting determinedly through tape falloff, electric piano, and Jerry MacDonnell's insistent, urgent drumming-- is a notable album peak: "Bored and rural-poor at 35/ I'm the best 17-year-old ever.../ We're losing sand/ A Wrens' ditch battle plan.../ Everyone choose sides/ The whole to-do of what to do for money/ Poorer or not this year and hell's the difference." And then there's "This Boy Is Exhausted", which blends the record's brightest hooks with its bleakest lines: Over two layers of blaring guitars (one pulsing, the other jangling), more of MacDonnell's colossal drumwork, and resolute background vocals, Bissell's hardened vocal buzzes: "I can't write what I know/ It's not worth writing/ I can't tell a hit from hell from one sing-along.../ But then once a while/ We'll play a show that makes it worthwhile."

The Wrens are now old enough to be considered indie rock's elder statesmen (their ages range from 33 to 40), and in trading the adolescent kick of Secaucus for ripened resignation, meticulous refinement for crippling maturation, they have realized their magnum opus-- the only album to eclipse Broken Social Scene's staggering You Forgot It in People on my year-end list. The Meadowlands exemplifies what every fan hopes for when a band announces a reunion or returns from more than a half-decade of silence: that they might have somehow improved exponentially each year they hid from the limelight, resulting in a payoff so cultivated it could be called their defining achievement by consensus. It's the reason we continue to harbor mixed feelings about a Pixies comeback: odds are, it ends in disappointment-- it always does-- but The Meadowlands is that one example left standing to offer a glimmer of hope. Black Francis, tomorrow this could be you.

— Ryan Schreiber, September 29, 2003