More than the precise details of this story, Magdalena Bay invests in the equipment of the game world, a flowing experience with a loose relationship to the standard verse-chorus structure. “Watching TV” sounds like the theme song for centerpiece “Tunnel Vision,” five minutes that seem to drag on longer, teasing their way into a soulful noodle-off that easily recalls Mag Bay's own history as a left-fielder pop. fighting his way out of a former prog rock band. La-la-la-laser skronker “That's My Floor” asks: Have you considered accessing a higher truth via the elevator? “I let it open me up,” says Tenenbaum, revolutionizing our perception of lobbies and office spaces.
They are lucky that the larger concept works because not every song does completely. The “Vampire in the Corner” modular bubble bath is more precious than awful. Steve Lacy's whisper-funk vibe on 'Love Is Everywhere' circles the canteen area of the outer ring. Maybe this is all part of the plot? When Tenenbaum sings things that don't make a lot of sense, you wonder if you'd do better if someone punched your brain in. The lyrics aren't necessarily the most readable part of this adventure, and I don't suggest trying to analyze them too closely—it's best to keep an open mind about POV. Sometimes Tenenbaum is the voice of conscience and sometimes she is the copycat. On “True Blue Interlude” he sounds like a representative for disc-implantation procedures: “It's here. say hello. It's you,” he says with the impressive certainty of a shampooed voice presenting a celebrity's brand new face. Later, on “Fear, Sex” , she sounds suspicious of the very idea of the computer-enhanced human: “I should know these dirty bastards/They'd put wires in your head.” (They were listening to Pink Floyd.)
In a final wink, True's story is based on a true story: the journey each of us takes to become who we are. With “The Ballad of Matt & Mica,” Mag Bay licenses some artistic self-mythology that could pass for Tenenbaum's real-life account of how she ended up in Los Angeles working in show biz with Lewin. It's a fundamentally happy ending, another factor that shifts the aesthetic balance toward pop. As a faintly grandiose electronic album with romantic, slightly overwrought autobiographical backdrops, we might think Fantastic record like something like the sugary LA version of Bowie's Black Tie White Noise. (I'd go to that party.) The best part, always, is the way Mag Bay's songs work simultaneously on the level of quintessentially “flawless” pop and as tongue-in-cheek criticism—call it “alternative »— of the same.
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