Boris

Pink

[Southern Lord/Diwphalanx; 2006]

Styles: doom-, psych-, and garage-rock with a pinch of metal
Others: The Melvins, The Psychic Paramount, Isis, Guitar Wolf, High On Fire

The most surprising thing about Boris’ Pink is not its so-dainty-it-must-be-metal sleeve art, its departures from the group’s beginnings, or its liberal use of vocals. What vexes the most is the achingly average rut the trio settles into once triumphant opener "Farewell" bids adieu and clean-up batter "Blackout" knocks its dank, bulbous ball of biff-rock out of the park. When the hypsters step out of their cave of comfort, they slip over mundane rawk riffage and cavalier yelps. This flailing and flopping hints that, when stripped of the tripod of post-rockian bombast, fluttering effects, and slow-grinding tempos — all easy tricks to hide behind — Boris haven’t a leg to stand on.

In the context of Pink, this would certainly seem to be an accurate assessment. You can’t please all the people all the time, especially when playing to the fanatical fanboy hordes that grow and multiply every day like the "ghosts" of the Fakahatchee Strand. But this reviewer couldn’t give a duck’s fart about whether the fickle scenesters that ruin Indieland for the rest of us are happy. Pink is quite simply half-there. Much of its contents are wasted on pork-y, garage-by-way-of-doom ragers that are the equivalent of cheap beer: you’ll only resort to it in a pinch, and you’ll probably end up depositing a good portion of it in your crapper.

And those vocals — what’s the deal? The understated moans of "Farewell" flash so much full-house promise, only to disappear up the bluffing Boris’ sleeve in favor of two-pair pokes at proper pitch that fall woefully short of the pat-hand dealt Pink by the press. The guitar and bass work isn’t much handier, resorting to the contrived stonerisms many flock to doom-rock to avoid. Pushing to uncover extra pockets of inspiration would likely have seen the Japanese group ascending Sabbath-born cliché. A little foresight would have gone a long way, and with Big Thicket, Coliseum, and many more ramming their big, dumb heads against a wall of beefcake brawn, it’s maddening to hear Boris branch out in even a vaguely similar direction.

The production job does nothing to hide the trio’s flaws, either. Engineered to mimic the snuffbox muffle-job of a band jamming in a sardine tin, Pink forces your speakers to rumble and gurgle, but unlike classic albums of the genre like Jerusalem or Houdini, the effect isn’t winning. Tracks such as "Afterburner" are woefully irksome in part due to their faulty knob-job, akin to a grainy vacation photo or a long-lost love letter too smudged to discern. "Afterburner" finds its sea legs somewhat after a few minutes tick by, but who has that kind of time? Patience? Willpower? Not I, said some guy.

Hairway to Steven, is this a disappointment. To paraphrase the great philosopher Homer (A.D.), Pink is muddy as a bowl of bad split pea soup, and twice as hammy. Its thunderous opening pitch will get you writhing in a greasy post-Boris (the album) lather, but pedestrian, flat singing, mildly acceptable guitar work, and wavering production values will leave you wishing for a rain delay thereafter. You won’t hate this album, as much of its contents are passable, you’ll just wish for more in light of Boris’ lingering legend.

1. Farewell
2. Pink
3. Women on the Screen
4. Nothing Special
5. Blackout
6. Electric
7. Pseudo-Bread
8. Afterburner
9. Six, Three Times
10. My Machine
11. Just Abandoned My Self

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