URL at the bottom ....................................................... Fucked from birth and trapped in America's suburban/teenage wasteland, Modest Mouse have had a prolific - if brief - career, releasing two albums, two eps, and a handful of singles of melodic rock music in the beautiful loser motif done so well by 80s post-punk titans like The Replacements and Husker Du. Building Nothing Out of Something, is their indie label kiss-off, as they have left Seattle independent, Up, for one of the last few majors left (Sony-Microsoft-General Motors imprint, Epic), and it collects scattered tracks and some of those singles in a digital-friendly jewel box. They've gone from supporting Elliot Smith and touring with 764-Hero, to becoming part of a fading Indie-Rock Mt. Everest, populated by an occasionally changing series of faces (remember Archers of Loaf?), and, as such, their ascendance has largely escaped me. But I digress. Their sound, which hasn't really changed much since their 1995 debut, This is a Long Drive for Someone With Nothing to Think About, is in line with their neighbors and occasional tour-mates, Built to Spill, as well as Fall-meets-Creedence outfit, Pavement. That is to say, skewed but anthemic guitars over a relatively straightforward rhythm section (I could stretch and say they exhibit some Gang of Four white-funk leanings, but I'm not feeling particularly limber). But where Built to Spill and Pavement's guitar rock reaches back to the AOR radio of their youth, Modest Mouse's lineage extends about as far back as the Pixies. The band's particular idiosyncrasies (and most of their charm) can be found in vocalist/guitarist Isaac Brock's backwoods, God-fearing, God-questioning, heavy-drinking lyrical character. Delivered in a pretty good Black Francis howl, Brock spins mostly first person tales of alienated men on the fence between white-trash and self-awareness. They've been drugged by television and travel through malls and parking lots that all look the same. Building... is actually easier to digest than either of their rather lengthy full-lengths, which both have their fair share of self-indulgent throwaway tracks. All of the songs on this compilation follow Modest Mouse's formula down the line, some more successfully than others. "Life of Arctic Sounds" moves a little bit more than most, with handclaps and a catchy refrain. But at this point in the rock and roll space/time continuum any four guys who've heard Slanted and Enchanted and Surfer Rosa could probably come up with a pretty close approximation to what's going on here. I think I want a little bit more from bands than what Modest Mouse seems infinitely satisfied in doing. Going after yourself with a scalpel while playing guitar like it's flying out of your hands worked on Let it Be� and New Day Rising� but Paul Westerberg drank some humor with his pain, and Bob Mould coated his with shards of feedback and rage. (By the way if you don't know who I'm talking about you should find out; without these men Modest Mouse would be playing Whitesnake covers in some bar in rural Washington.) Anyway, Modest Mouse seems to content to simply say, "I'm fucked, here's a solo from Doug Martcsh's trashcan." If you've never heard Modest Mouse and want to stare the dragon in the face, here's as good a place as any to test the waters, because it's shorter and it's just as good/bad as anything else they've done. I suppose it's appropriate that as Modest Mouse is basically a compendium of what the indie-rock sound of the mid-'90s was - the angular, vaguely heroic guitars, the self-deprecating modesty - it is they who wear the crown as they leave the cozy insides of the crumbling kingdom. Congratulations guys, have fun in Wal-Mart. Chris Ryan ([EMAIL PROTECTED]) http://www.spin.com/heavy/dailyrotation/2000/02/08/1/index.html
