Paper Airplanes’ Boyhood is ridiculously operatic for an album — nay, a band — with such an adolescence-conjuring moniker. After a haughty intro track pregnant with plumes of just about every instrument you could imagine in the More Is Better era, Boyhood segues into a steady-weaving piano solo that unfolds and fastens its subsequent parlor comps to steadfast, crash-heavy drum racket. That’s all dashed in less than two minutes and reprised, as the comps turn back into the aforementioned solo and whip the arrangement into a slightly proggy lather. From there, as with most of the songs, what occurs is completely up in the air.
What a concept! For all the annoying caterwauling Paper Airplanes throw at you from across the classroom, you’ll be intent on listening to what the professor, in this case multi-instrumentalist Marcus Stoesz, has to say, if only because you don’t know what the hell it’ll be. He could start discussing Shakespeare or launch into a lecture on pork belly futures, and either way you’ll be surprised and not surpised at the same time because you were prepped early on not to make any predictions. And remember, when you ASSUME you make an ‘ass’ out of ‘u’ and ... well, hopefully you know the rest.
Now that we’ve got their strategy mapped out, bar-graphed and marked on a flow chart, what do we make of it? This decision is best considered by answering two important questions. First, is there enough variety to justify the bombastic statements made by most of the songs? Second, despite the lily-pad jumps in volume and style, does Boyhood a) hold together like a gingerbread house or b) dissolve like that same gingerbread house when ripped apart and dunked in milk? Well, I’m happy to say the answer is 'yes,' and ‘a.’ Two gold stars for you! And though you might want to hire Will Ferrell to yell “That ... Just ... Happened” every minute or so just to keep your wits about you, experiencing the drunken ambition of Paper Airplanes might reinstate your faith in indie-rock.
Or, if you’re the conservative, Camera Obscura, ‘indoor’ type, this shit could leave you dizzy and reaching for the nearest tree branch to steady your senses. And those vocals are tough to stomach for the full wagon-ride, though compared to 75 percent of the competition, they stand up just fine. So what we have here is an appealing dish for those with strong stomachs and a sure-fire barfbag situation for those not obsessed with hearing a whirring synth line shooting up and over the horizon every few seconds. I find myself leaning toward accepting Boyhood for all its awkward growing pains and pre-pubescent protrusions, though I can’t help but wonder how much more effective this rugrat bastard will be when Paper Airplanes, in the words of B. Wilson, “Grow up (to be a man).”
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