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W. A. C. O.
Finnegan's W. A. C. O.
Mindspring
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Pan stumbled into the twenty-first century and he plays for a band called W. A. C. O. Truly, Finnegan’s W. A. C. O. has as much pastoral intrigue and bizarreness as any mythical tale. Flutes, strings, topped by the distinct voice of Steven Gregoropoulos, as well as many more traditional instruments (they had eleven member’s, then I blinked and there were twelve) clash together to make a rather unconventional sound, making a perfect marriage of past and future, occasionally.
I’ve heard people compare their sound to the Beatles’ song “No. 9,” but I have to disagree. While on the surface they may sound just as strange, there’s actually an obvious melody going on in a lot of their music. And while they’re strange, they don’t strike me as being strange completely for strangeness’ sake, underneath their cacophonic exterior, this bizarre mixture is anchored by some solid songwriting. I say “completely,” because some of this album does seem to be derived from experimentation, more than purely art-driven. Those songs are the exception however, as the album generally succeeds in maintaining its balance while teetering on the precarious art/experimental line. In a way they’re similar to an orchestral Sonic Youth (just like the anagram of their name suggests, Wild Acoustic Chamber Orchestra), writing a number of great tunes with just enough discordance to make them interesting as well as extremely enjoyable in their uniqueness, a few that you have to be in the mood for, and then a few that have such an art-pop feel that make them difficult to appreciate. To me, some of their songs are good in the same way Twin Peaks is good in that they seamlessly combine the natural and the unnatural, the real and the surreal, to produce something that retains qualities of both, yet at the same time is altogether unique. Lyrics like “So lost in your intelligence, the swagger (?) of the fit, that humorous and pelican contributory slit. / I did not ask for sentences and now they rule the land, they call us with their clodhoppers and toenail colored sand” demonstrate how they almost make sense, yet leave room for interpretation and wonder with colorful insertions. Their music seems to capture the magic of mythology, the twistedness of, well, life at moments, and the earthiness of those pastoral green fields all at the same time.
They’ve been at this since 1993 and they’re not changing a thing. The band seems to care less about signing to a major label and care more about having fun and discovering what sounds they can make. There seems to be little room for middle ground, with each song you get a melody, or you don’t. I found that some of the songs on this sound like a high school band crash, where countless kids smashed their horns but diligently played on. And then some songs, like “Goldenrod,” conjured some deep spell that kept calling me back, left me in awe and absolutely mesmerized, and feeling as though this album is well worth the thirteen bucks, especially if you’re itching for a totally new sound.
-Jennifer Hall 02/17/04
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