In a perfect world, Babyland would not only have a lucrative major-label recording deal, but a cavalcade of big-media fanfare would attend the release of each new record. In a perfect, just world. Alas, we live in an undiminishingly imperfect world, a world in which banality has become a music biz epidemic (transmitted through buzz), and one in which we must scavenge independent record stores for Babyland’s dynamic, consistently near-perfect albums. Such a low-key presence can be a gift however - those of us who know about Babyland capitalize on their independence by relishing our increased share in their attention span. This is our band damnit, and for once, our band has spoken those words we have longed to hear: "We will Not Go Away."
Outlive Your Enemies, the fourth full-length release from this unceasingly energetic LA duo, proves itself worth a mutli-year wait (Who’s Sorry Now, their third release, appeared on Flipside records in 1996), and exhibits more emotional and intellectual range than anything you’ll likely see a major label release this year (no big surprise there). It is one of those enigmatically crafted records, a Babyland trademark, that will provide a soundtrack for both club-stomping frenzies and quiet moments of solitary intro-/extro-spection. The band accomplishes this un-mean feat not by throwing in a token ballad or two, or by adopting some faux-spiritual pose (co-opted from the self-help ideology du-jour). Rather, they opt for an expression of genuine concern for the happiness of their rabid fan base, a sentiment borne on the cunning update of late 70's/early 80's electronic music (archaic synthesizers, junk yard percussion and intensely emotional vocals). Thus does Babyland generate highly listenable songs that also work as calls to action. Outlive Your Enemies, with its playful moments of electronic poppiness juxtaposed against ominous instances of looming po-mo doom and gloom, is a quintessential Babyland record.
The album plumbs all of the conflicts and paradoxes of post-modern American life, issues that Babyland has explored on each of its four albums: Man clashes with, yet depends upon machines; strip malls rise up to fulfill our immediate desires, while littering the landscape with nonessential trash architecture; consumerism takes precedence over craftsmanship; acquisitiveness nullifies our ability to achieve lasting fulfillment; market groups and demographics become our tribes. On "Mini-Mall," singer/lyricist Dan Gatto rages against the hallmarks of our disposable suburban culture: "Banners scream 99 cents," from beige stuccoed walls housing laundromats, hair and nail salons, gas stations and mini-marts; he finally suggests, that "if nothing is permanent, then let’s tear the shit down." On "Youth Choker," he excoriates record industry/media types for the sinister pigeonholing of teens into demographic groups, where they are easily sold personalities that readily gobble up useless, soulless crap. "Safe Equals No Sound," the album’s first single, and "Test Pilot," urge revolt against the culture of acquiescent acquisitiveness and a reassertion of one’s individuality not just by shrugging in the face of marketing departments, but by fighting on and making noise despite being told to shut up, consume and conform.
While all of this might seem a bit heavy on the dialectic of class struggle, Babyland’s sense of humor balances the equation; this is band that refuses to take itself too seriously. "Fucked Equipment," long a staple of the band’s inimitable live show, pokes fun at the group’s now infamous troubles in dealing with their low-tech aesthetic: they run their entire operation through a Mac-in-the-box Macintosh computer, and regularly have to deal with erudite synthesizers, ghosts in their machines, and faulty PAs in less than four-star venues. Self-effacing moments like this, also a Babyland staple, free the album from any sort of damaging pretension, allowing the band to tackle heady problems with heart and soul. Babyland excels at creating enigmatic half-pop songs. They exist at some wayward, blissful junction of punk, industrial, techno and '80s synth pop, at once modern and arcane, agonized and ebullient with joie de vivre. Their approach to instrumentation and their concern give their music a warmth found lacking in quite a lot of electronicalia; Babyland may funk up their tracks with bouncy synth bleeps and hip-hop beats, but push Dan’s alternately soft and tortured vocals to the front of the mix, alongside Smith’s off-kilter junk percussion. The result is an electronic band with an undeniably human face, a cerebrally combative unit that has an incredible amount of fun doing what they do, and an album that scores big on every level.
Sean Flinn | Winter, 1998
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