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You could make a reasonably compelling argument that the '90s are the '70s all over again: "electronica" is disco, "friendly rock" (Jon M. Gilbertson's term: Gin Blossoms, Wallflowers) is soft rock (America, James Taylor), Blues Traveler and their ick...uh, ilk is '70s-era watered-down Dead, grunge is AOR, pop-punk is pop-punk, and metal is metal...so no one should be surprised that the "concept album" seems to be making a comeback.

But don't run screaming from the room - no album-length "suites" with "variations" about deaf and dumb mentally disordered kings of the elves who strive after a mythical princess in a magical land where televisions can talk and mushrooms grow beards. Narrative is generally eschewed, and no attempt is made to musically link the songs comprising these neo-concept albums. Instead, recent works from Chevy Heston, Promise Ring, Lilys, Barbara Manning, Radiohead, Helium, and the Wrens (among others) have been unified by a vague sense of theme or a central idea. Rather than make an album a series of utterly disconnected songs, these artists simply put together a series of songs that suggest, without insisting upon, some relation amongst the songs.

This six-song EP's lyrics sketch out a tale involving a talented photographer who's forced, perhaps, to make a living doing child pornography. (Only a cynic would suggest any figurative resemblance between this tale and the label SNAFUs with Grass/BMG that caused the Wrens' last album, Secaucus, to disappear along with albums by Loomis and other talented bands.) A shady character named Mr. Earl (did he used to be called "Speedo"?) shows up repeatedly, along with many references to south as a direction (I told you the story was sketchy).

It's perfectly possible to ignore any suggestions of "concept," however, and simply listen to the music. The Wrens continue to evolve their own sound distinct from the strong Pixies influence from which they began. The Wrens create a dense melange of multiple guitars, vocals, and keyboard accents, with a strikingly fluent deployment of dissonance. "North to Nothing," with its indelible chorus, is the catchiest song here (with an intro a bit too close to the intro of "Surprise, Honeycomb" from Secaucus), while "I Guess We're Done" is a lovely, heartbreaking update of a '50s-style 6/8 ballad featuring the unlikely but apt use of orchestral bells as texture.

The band is apparently working on a distribution deal with a major, but don't wait for the wisdom of any big label to catch up with this great band.

Ever since the Wrens released their 25-track debut, Silver, in 1994, it's been obvious that this band isn't shy about taking chances and bending "the rules." (I once watched a Wrens show where the lead singer read, and then set fire to rejection letters from major labels in front of a music industry conference audience.) The same can be said for their music, which similarly dares to uncover their own blend of pop amidst its twisted chord changes, wonderfully strange harmonies and haywire guitars. The Wrens' latest, Abbott 1135 (a six-song EP) marks the band's most mainstream effort thus far. The songs are up tempo and direct; from the choppy rhythm or the opener "Pretty O.K." through the driving and stiff "Fire Fire," this disc clips by at a blurred pace, slowing only for the waltzing ballad "I Guess We're Done." All in all it's a short but sweet continuance of this band's singular and impressive sound.

I'm a bit behind the times here but I'm very happy to have finally gotten my mits on the latest from what might very well be the greatest pop band in the world.

The Wrens' two albums, Silver and Secaucus, both on the expired Grass label, are a couple of the finest recordings I've ever heard. If you missed them somehow, dig them up--trust me; you won't be disappointed.

The Wrens' greatest talent is is the ability to shift gears without losing continuity. A wide variety of sounds make up the canon, and it still all sounds like the Wrens. this EP is populated by more bashers (five out of the six tunes) than usual, but each song has a distinct personality and feel.

I'm simply left screaming for more. The Wrens have been kicking out awesome music for a while now, and the songwriting and playing have yet to decline. Oh, I'm mainlining this thing fer sure.

Mixing avant-pop song structures with an 80's-flavored new wave spirit,The Wrens continue to produce the best alternative/pop-punk on the planet. "North to Nothing" and "Pretty O.K.," the highlights of this six-song set, are far better than anything currently being played on alternative-rock radio, but after two brilliant full-length albums and a handful of EPs, they have yet to gain the notoriety they deserve. It makes no sense.

I remember when I was a kid, my cousin and I used to build "race cars"--toy wagons, really--from stray scraps of lumber, chain, screws, wheels scavenged from derelict appliances. . . whatever was lying around my uncle's basement woodshop. We'd then ride these heaps careening rickety downhill on our suburban sidestreets, blissfully unthinking that our tossed-together vehicles could fly into pieces at any moment and send us flying out onto the concrete.

That's about what the Wrens sound like--although they also seem well aware of the bruises such unstable contraptions lead to, as well as the smaller bruises inflicted by more grown-up, yet not necessarily more stable, arrangements. (And wouldn't you know it, the Wrens recorded Secaucus in their basement.) The band's basic sound might be found within a triangle defined by Surfer Rosa era Pixies, early Pavement, and Jawbox,but the Wrens distinguish themselves here with lots of subtle tone colorings (occasional piano and synth, FXd guitars as texture) and an adventuresome harmonic sense.

Several songs here seem to address the failure of suburban expectations--marriagekidshousecareer--but not in a heavy-handed or trite way. If the title and lyrics of "Hats Off to Marriage, Baby" seem rote-punk cynical ("Chip crack a plaster of what a man," "compare your wealth to riches / dick rank your kiss and tells"), while the caffeinated tempo and blind-curve key-changes would brush off the weight of that cynicism through sheer speed, the seemingly ironic-hip title of the next song, "Jane Fakes a Hug," is offset by delicate, strange, and ultimately heartshredding arrangement suggesting a baroque Brian Wilson on a collision course with the Jesus and Mary Chain.

And then the Wrens'll turn around and write a perfect, slightly off-center guitar pop song like "I've Made Enough Friends": gorgeous but tart-not-sweet vocal harmonies, and a tempo-shifting drum part that drives the song while adding rhythmic variety. The titles of any number of other songs ought to be uttered regularly by the Bald Gnome of MTV ("Built in Girls," "It's Not Getting Any Good," "Rest Your Head"), but since that network and commercial alternative radio have long ago traded in such clattering toy carts for safe little Ford Escorts in the suburbs, you probably won't hear them there. Better things come from the basement than from the malls anyway.

"Secaucus" is one of those albums that's bursting at the seams, loaded with so much goodness that you can't fully appeciate it until you've listened to it several times. Once you're past that hurdle, it's tastier than chocolate covered potato chips and nowhere near as fattening. Things kick off with the skittering "Yellow Number Three," which sounds like Wire coming off of its spool in a big fucking hurry. The empty spool then drops to the floor and gets an XTC push across the floor, giving birth to "Built in Girls." The spool tumbles outside and is run over by a drunken, testosterone fueled Superchunk with "Surprise, Honeycomb" plates. And so on.

One song begets another with a completely different influences. I also hear echoes of The Beach Boys, Robyn Hitchcock, Thinking Fellers, and anybody who has ever yearned to pick up a glockenspeil. This albums gets thicker and juicer every time you plump it in the CD player. Warp speed, baby.

The boys have outdone themselves on their second album, producing more thorny candy, more twisted and delicious strangled pop here then on their excellent debut album, Silver. They combine hummable, singable melodies with edgy, jagged guitar and two-part non-harmony. Together with noises and samples which will make you wonder which phone is off the hook, or who is at the door. Go get this great album. And their live show is a treat, too. See them if you can. HIGHLY RECOMMENDED

Damn, who ARE these guys? Ostensibly just an underachieving quartet from New Jersey, the Wrens exceed all expectations on their exciting second album, aptly titled Secaucus. (I missed the debut -- oops.) Blending electric raw power with arty intermeshed vocals, the Wrens offer plenty of thrills with this diverse 19-song disk. Ferociously skewed rockers like "Built In Girls," "Surprise, Honeycomb" and "Rest Your Head" are the norm, but the action is perfectly broken up with offbeat dirges like "Won't Get Too Far," "Safe And Comfortable" and two amazing Brian Wilson variants, "Destruction/Drawn" and "Jane Fakes A Hug." With so many tracks, there's bound to be a couple of misses, but they're painless amidst such an abundance of witty melodies and lyrics. Those battling vocal parts are what really stick with you -- they're simply impossible to do justice in words.
****

Once in a great while an album that looks like it's gonna be one of those run-of-the-mill boys-with-guitars records surprises li'l ol' me. Secaucus had me so successfully distracted from the first note that my pizza got cold (unheard of!). These guys get me like "Ziggy era" Bowie, The Dickies, Pixies, and The Replacements in a blender with lyrics not quite as abstract as early R.E.M. There's an adventurous, melodic pop sensibility that seeps out of somewhere and grows hooks. "Surprise, Honeycomb" blows me away with it's dual-vocal chorus, spooky anthemic cadence, and psychotic subject matter. "Rest Your Head" is a carefully sloppy gem with laughing guitars and a manic organ keeping time. "Hat's Off To Marriage Baby" is a painstakingly composed runaway train-of-a-tune casting a cynical eye over mundane wedlock sex. A worthy find.

Talk about pleasant surprises. . . more than a year after issuing their breakthrough Secaucus disc for Grass Records, and a good six months since they officailly parted ways with that label in search of greener pastures, The Wrens, still working on a major-label deal, have taken it upon themselves to release Overnight Success, an absolutely incredible batch of ten sonic-pop deconstructions that should serve not only to bolster their label bargaining power, but to build on their (all too) slowly growing reputation as one America's most intiriguing and inventive new bands, as well. If you can imagine XTC's avant-pop colliding with Pixies-esque tortured, blast-first guitar lines, capped by Richard Hell's new wave vocal twitch, you'd have a vague idea where the Wrens come from - but we're only talking ballpark here. The recording quality of this self-made, basement production is murky - nearly bootleg variety, but the songs are as stunning, provocative and well-arranged as you're going to find. The Wrens have this perverse song sense - an unusual knack for odd arrangements, which you could almost call "sound collages," which they employ to create wonderfully twisted pieces - layer upon warped layer. Rarely have I seen a band so fully embarace the unexpected. Time and again, they seek out the least likely path, take it, and create twisted magic each and every time. Their musical chops are obvious, their writing and singing, top notch. . . but it's their measured balance of aggression, literate lyricism and melodicism that sets the Wrens apart from the crowd. Wow.
I'll have no part of keeping the wraps on this "best kept secret," The Wrens just might be the best band going right now. For those who like to know what's happening before it actually happens, Overnight Success is it.

Un-fucking-believable.
You'll have to excuse my fine journalistic eloquence, but I'm still a bit dumb-founded by the searing intensity and super-charged power of the Wrens' first-ever Motor city performance.
In my book, their '96 release, Secaucus, was THE record of the year, but being such an intricate, inventive, hell. . . chaotic, record, I had some doubts that the band could actually bring that feeling of well-orchestrated mayhem to the stage.
It took them less than one-quarter of a verse to prove that what you hear on the record is what the Wrens actually sound like.
As the band launched their set with the brand new "Big City, Move On," bass player Sett, one of the more tightly wound performers you'll ever see, lauched himself - time and time again, as if someone had released some internal spring, bounding about the stage, finding just enough time between laps to move within proximity of the microphone so he could punctuate guitarist Charles Mexico's lead vocals with near-perfect harmonies and well-placed hollers.
With such a dynamic presence on the stage, it would be easy for the other Wrens to shrink into the background, but nothing could have been further from the truth on this night. Mexico spent the evening windmilling wildly at the headstock of his guitar, playing with strange guitar toys including something that look like some sort of short wave radio, coaxing or beating all sorts of unusual emanations from his axe, counterpointed by the laid-back grooving of guitarist Whelan G.E. - meeting Mexico's stinging guitar runs blast for blast with a "no sweat" expression on his face. Drummer Jerome MacDonnell pounded away blissfully while the Wrens worked their way through a set comprised of selections from Secaucus, their new self-released Overnight Success, and, to the crowd's delight, even a few from their debut, Silver. The band seemed genuinely surprised as just how well they were received, Sett commenting at one point, "We're gonna take you with us, you people know our songs."
After the show, the bassist from the opening act PunchDrunk (who played a fine set of twisted guitar pop themselves) had this observation on touring with the Wrens: "some bands you play with, and you watch a song or two and say, those are pretty cool songs. . . but I just have to watch the Wrens every night. . . it's like being in the presence. . . "
For a night, I knew exactly what he meant.