Phillipe Roberts
Scrunched between commuters and bucking wildly to the clanging percussion of the morning J-Train, Pollens are throwing an existential dance party right here, right now. And unlike on Facebook, they’re not taking “interested” for an answer. With a sound that floats between the mathematical groove sorcery of Battles and the acid-fried screech of Animal Collective, Mister Manufacture is a joyful romp through the pleasures and pitfalls of an overconnected, overcrowded modern life.
“I tell you what you want / I tell you about what you want / But why do I like it?”
“Computers won’t change anything … I don’t see my future in the crystal screen.”
If you’re still browsing social media after being barraged by think pieces about how it’s eroding the moral fabric of the youth, lyrics like those might send your eyeballs spinning in their sockets—it’s a knee-jerk reaction to a tide of curmudgeonly fear-mongering.
Thankfully, Pollens are having none of that; if anything, they’re just as tired of that old man yelling at you to get off the digital lawn as you are. “J-Train,” the centerpiece of the record, is a convincing parody of overheard millennial conversations: “I look at art on the internet,” “Some very famous people are still in high school,” and, a personal favorite, “I attended a workshop once.” It could honestly pass for a field recording.
But there’s a healthy dose of DEVO-like irony baked into those squishy synths and warped drums, and a soft-hearted sympathy for obsession with technological escapism. The back half of that line about famous people in high school? “And others are waiting for those ten years after high school to go away.” We’re all that crabby old man shouting at teens from time to time, and Pollens isn’t afraid to call you out on it.
Don’t skimp on the headphones when delving into Mister Manufacture; laptop speakers won’t do justice to the complex ecosystem of sounds that Pollens have engineered to accompany their psychedelic sloganeering. Although the songs do have a loop-based character to them, their consistent rhythmic attack feels all-encompassing. Warm, slippery bass and ping-ponging snares curl delicately around guitar licks that glitch in and out, giving rise to an effect reminiscent of Talking Heads’ “Born Under Punches.” The deja vu doesn’t stop there, either—keep your ears open on “Looks,” a stomping cry for recognition amidst the brick backdrops of the city on “This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody).”
That one riff is the singular moment of sustained vocal melody on the album, and it’s a surprisingly fantastic look for Pollens, a band that sticks to robotic, half-rapped delivery for most of its output. It’s a moment of strangely naked vulnerability on a record that deals mostly in quick-witted, tight-lipped jabs. Because as much as we love to laugh at “Dinosaurs’” creationist caricature, who “doesn’t believe in the ocean floor” or “outer space,” and won’t be convinced that “math is cool,” Pollens knows as well as we do that unmasking our deepest intimacies is the antidote to our anxious fumblings for the nearest screen.
Mister Manufacture is out this Friday, 10/27.