Despite being like clockwork, I can’t help but admit that it serves its head-bobbing function, and I couldn’t be happier if any permutation of this stuff hit it big. “Teenager”: that’s all they have left to say, and they do, every two bars. Speaking of “Teenager,” I know these guys are instrumental by reputation, but it still nags me that the lyrics here get piled onto such a stale cultural lexicon while adding as little ( “grow grow grow” “show show show”) as possible - like, they wanted to write a song about a teenager, but the entire history of pop music has done all the work for them. Which is why the eerie vocal monotone of “Teenager,” for example, is so much more successful when it first rises out of the mix than when it strays into barkier post-punk territory: it actually seems to be messing with your head. Isn’t that the point? The jazz-guitar and lite-prog synths don’t do much to drown me out. That is, they like to get together and play - Kraut revival’s dirty little secret is that its constituents are basically socially-sanctioned jam bands - and if they decide to put it to tape every once in a while like they did here, they’ll have stumbled upon a ‘career.’ The throb is resignedly samey compared to the spazzy Oneida shit they had going last year, and the sonic density takes a backseat to cleaner instruments of melody. And it’s a mightily sick groove, folks, but if you thought they were going to up the ante with a cheeky title like Pure Moods, keep listeners on their toes or whatnot, you’ll be surprised to find that Cave are progressing almost exactly as you’d expect them to. But what we’ve basically got on this EP is a flatlined version of what came before it - 2009’s still-writhing Psychic Psummer - with a smattering of tricks that can simply no longer fight the groove. Huzzah to Cave for feeding off that dread. I love me some Enya and Dream Academy on proper occasion, but it’s understandable that that complicit warmth carries a certain dread for most people.
It makes us think of automated nurture, overaged greatness, our parents by Freudian extension. “Pure Moods” is so much more than just a compilation series: it’s like some kind of a creepy axis that sneaks up when Pandora’s left on too long without feedback, that bites the asses of even the artiest. The title’s also very thin ice for any group of Krauty chums who know their latter-day Tangerine Dream and Can. I don’t like to go nuts on titles as nose-tapping theses for reviews, but I think we can all agree that “Pure Moods” is a fucking great name for a record - an invitation to a real face-melter, if it’s as sarcastic as it sounds.
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