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FETCH THE COMPASS KIDS

This mag may cover hard music, but “hard” doesn't always mean power chords, feedback, and an OD of machismo. It can also denote something you just don't get.
. . . And plenty of people just never got the Danielson Famile. Can't blame 'em entirely. An avant-post-punk family act that dresses up, in nurse outfits, has a singer with one of the most annoying / engaging falsettos this side of Jad Fair (OK, so it helps to have familiarity with veteran indie rock acts such as Half-Japanese, Fair's original vehicle toward subcultural notoriety, to dig on the Danielsonian vibe, but 'tain't a necessity, either), and covers WordJazz inventor Ken Nordine, alongside their warpedly child-like originals, is only going to appeal to so many plebs, regardless the beaucoup acclaim bestowed upon it by Spin, National Public Radio, the USA cable network, and numerous music mags who appreciate the group's experimental aesthetic no matter its espousal of scripturally sound, if sometimes metaphorically oblique (which is the point) Christianity. And you expected Petra to appeal to fans of The Residents or Caroliner? Tell me another one, funny boy!
. . . Well, the sonically heroic Dan Smith and his clan and kith have come perilously close to making a (gasp, shudder) pop album. If by “pop” you can mean tunes of reasonably radio-accessible-length chock full o' hooks and a certain cleanness of production, then Fetch the Compass Kids is the stuff of Carson Daily's fondest “TRL” dreams. OK, maybe in an alternate universe.
. . . In this dimension, or any other, it's tough to deny the strength and memorability of the tuneage on the Fam's fifth longplayer (and first without primary Christian market distribution). Give it a couple spins, and your noggin — if you have any kind of heart to accompany it — will be brimming with the utter catchiness of “We Don't Say Shut Up,” the glorious melodic ascendance embodied by “Fathom the Nine Fruits Pie,” and “Sing to the Singer”’s appropriation of a build-and-release aurality that makes for a wry update on Phil Spector's 60s “wall of sound” production values.
. . . Thank not only the band's self-production for an overall sheen, that should attract new listeners without compromising the singular quirkiness longtimers have come to love about them. The engineering contributions of Steve Albini (known to evangelighetto musical dwellers for the wonders he wrought with Chevelle, Ninety Pound Wuss, Ballydowse, and Crashdog; indie rock diehards and Led Zep fans know him for lots more) have likely a goodly deal to do with the album's balance of accessibility and eccentricity.
. . . As a bonus for those numbskulls who simply can't get beyond the octet's purposefully and poetically veiled language, “Can We Camp at Your Feet” is the praise & worship song those same people will adore after they've had their fill of the Integrity / Maranatha! / Vineyard P&W factory. On second thought, anyone who can't see the godliness of Danielson Famile's lyrical intent probably hasn't gotten their fill of the I/M!/V machine, but it doesn't make D.F.'s most blatant contribution to the music of the Lord's adoration any less lovely.
. . . “Death,” “speed,” “grind,” “crunch,” “Marshall stacks,” “hair farmers,” and “heavy” aren't necessarily words appropriate to describe Danielson Famile's “hard” music, which just got a little easier for listeners less arcana-inclined to try. Hard can mean difficult, yes, but in these weirdos' (that's a compliment) case, it also means intriguing beyond categorization. Listen with open ears, people.[Secretly Canadien/ Jamie Lee Rake]