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57 of 62 people found the following review helpful:
5.0 out of 5 stars
Raised on pradies, peanut shells and dirt, March 31, 2004
Last years opening salvo from The Decemberists was Castaways and Cutouts. Crafting beautiful songs rich with story, they have quickly become a pinnacle on the scene (followed by another full length release the same year, and already an EP this year, they may also quickly become one of the most prolific if they are not careful). Colin Meloy and his Decemberists hail from Portland OR, and are oft compared to Neutral Milk Hotel. I'm going to get one thing clear and out of the way right off the bat if you don't mind. One, yes, they do sound akin to Neutral Milk Hotel. And two, I'll be perfectly honest, I'm not that fond of Jeff Magnum's voice. Though I can hear the resemblance, I like Colin's voice much, much better. Another reviewer implied that this was a less daring album than Neutral Milk's outings, and I concede that might be a fair assessment. But while the blueprint might not be pushing the envelope quite as far as they did, that does not keep this group from putting together a musical monument through perfect, beautiful execution and well measured emotion.Overall, this album is dotted with beautiful musical interaction by so many instruments and graced with detailed lyrical imagery. In my mind I can picture them as the last of the wandering minstrels, recanting the ghostly mid nineteenth century tale of young death on "Leslie Ann Levine", featuring what I can only identify as some sort of well played squeeze box ("Fifteen years gone now, I still wander this parapet and shake my rattle bone / Fifteen years gone now, I still cling to the petticoats of the girl who died with me"). I can picture them modern daydreamers lost in the visions of ages past during "Here I Dreamt I Was an Architect", where they evoke pictures of soldiers, rogues, and scoundrels while finishing upon a more modern but just as elegant fancy ("But you / my soiled teenage girlfriend / while you furrow like a lioness / we are vagabonds, we travel without seatbelts on / we live this close to death"). Gorgeous in its orchestration with a melody like soft falling rain in the background, it is definitely my favorite. "July, July!" goes a bit more up-tempo, displaying some vocal harmonizing, and almost rocking out on the memorable chorus. The album closes with "California One / Youth and Beauty Brigade" a montage of intoxicating guitar work and stunning lyrics that capture that strange paradox feeling one has when they have at once a complete satisfaction in the moment, yet doubts and fears about the future. Flipping midway, the tune changes and piano accented by wave crashes of cymbals take over, organs swell, and the ten minute juggernaut finishes in a beautiful almost psychedelic whirlpool, and coughs up its albums title ("We're lining up the light-loafer'd and the bored bench warmers / Castaways and cutouts, fill it up / Come join the Youth and Beauty Brigade / Nothing will stand in our way").
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