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Pains of Being Pure at Heart
Dickens Pub
Friday, September 30 - Friday, September 30

More in: Rock / Pop

When the needle dropped on Pains of Being Pure At Heart’s eponymous 2008 debut, the feeling was uncanny: It felt — not only sounded — like the LP that was permanently playing in any given town’s hippest record store. Washed-up hardcore kids, at least those who learned a thing or two from American Nightmare, drew sonic touchpoints from Smiths records. Over-it Belle and Sebastian acolytes scrambled for British twee parallels. Try-hard NME writers dug for self-congratulatory shoegaze comparisons. Eyes rolled everywhere else.

Such namechecks weren’t baseless, but none felt perfectly accurate, either. Pains never re-created a band or era with specificity; rather, it indisputably nailed the cool. It was the type of LP a scared-shitless 13-year-old would purchase upon first listen, if only to bask in the glowing approval from the clerk at Sloth, Zulu or Rotate This. And it was one of the finest indie-pop records of the decade.

“I know the sentiment you’re expressing, being intimidated by the cool clerk at the record store,” laughs frontman Kip Berman. “You’re buying Shellac records to impress the clerk when you came in to buy pop-punk records. You saying that [our sound] is elitist is a huge compliment — but I don’t think we’re what the cool guy at the record store is listening to right now.”

Berman’s correct. Since their debut, two things happened: 2009’s Higher Than the Stars EP and Belong, the band’s second Slumberland long-player. And thus began the exodus from the basement towards the arena — slowly, Berman’s slithery lilt rose from amidst the band’s mid-fi fuzz. Octave chords swapped murky reverb for sharp trebles. Toms became deeper, and crash cymbals, um, crash-ier. And, finally, for Belong, released earlier this year, the Brooklyn quintet enlisted A-list producers in Flood and Alan Moulder, a duo responsible for Joshua Tree, Siamese Dream, Pretty Hate Machine, Fever to Tell and — well, you get the picture.

Still, for all the editorial devoted to Belong’s Clinton-era FM-radio tendencies — and, with his liberal referencing of Dishwalla and The Promise Ring, there’s no doubting Berman’s affinity for the decade — Berman says Belong isn’t a period piece. “When Alan Moulder produces a PJ Harvey album, is that considered ’90s?” he asks.

“We’re a pop band,” he continues. It’s a fact he mentions no less than seven times during the course of the interview. “What I like about pop music is it doesn’t have to sustain itself in intellectual critique. On the most basic level, a good song skips your brain entirely. For us, it’s never about ‘is this song advancing western culture?’ Naw, it’s about ‘is this a good pop song?’”

And most of Belong’s tracks are — right down to the Siamese Dream guitar tone. Nonetheless, early criticism panned the album for its straightforward lyrical approach — Pains’ early-game work charmed with Berman’s deft coquettishness, where the “back of your mother’s car” was as naive or as sordid as imaginations would allow — but, Berman argues, those very critics confused simplicity with immediacy.

“For our first record, we had a wealth of experiences to draw on, but for Belong, we didn’t have that. These songs weren’t so reflective. It was about being wrapped up in the vitality of the moment.”

Fair point. But what of naming the record Belong — and repeating “we don’t belong” in the title track’s chorus? Isn’t that a little high-school melodramatic for a 31-year-old? “Well, no, it’s about finding your identity, and everyone feels it,” he says. “I mean, what kind of a band are we? Are we a shitty Brooklyn indie pop band with a big producer? Are we a real band, like Deerhunter? Are we a flash in a pan who lined up with a sound that’s in vogue?”

We suggest he’s underrating himself. Berman’s undeterred. “‘Belong’ is a huge alt-rock song about not belonging. But if it’s a statement of arrival, it’s so obnoxious! It’s like, [whining] ‘Oh, we don’t belong!’ behind 8,000 guitars. You can’t write a bombastic song to be congratulatory. You use it to hide your insecurity.”

Just like going to buy Taking Back Sunday records and leaving with Shellac’s discography.